The Other One
by aprix22
Summary: Mycroft tells Sherlock that criminal Jonathan Blake is behind the projection of Moriarty on every screen across the UK. In order for Sherlock to begin to understand the situation he must visit someone he hasn't seen for 20 years, his eldest brother Sherrinford. Set immediately after His Last Vow. Mentions of extreme violence and drugs in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**

 **In light of the information revealed in TAB I have made some minor changes to the pre-existing changes in this fic. It has not changed the plot or direction of the plot at all, I have just included some info that was suggested in TAB on the airstrip.**

John and Mary whispered to each other as they prepared a pot of Earl Grey and put four teacups and spoons on a tray. Sherlock stood with his back to his guests, staring out of his window looking out onto a clear January evening on Baker Street. Mycroft Holmes stood completely still, his expressionless face focused on the back of his younger brother.

"Teas ready" Mary tried her best to sound cheerful as she brought the tray into the room and placed it carefully onto the small table next to Sherlock's chair. John followed her, his face lined with worry. Neither of the Holmes brothers moved until Sherlock spoke in a much gentler tone than usual, "John, Mary… would you mind leaving me with my brother? I need to speak with him". It was apparent that Sherlock was not much bothered that Mary had made tea for four. Mary said nothing but turned to her husband, who was frowning at his former house mate.

"Sherlock, the last time Moriarty was… alive, and you and your brother made a plan without my knowledge, I lost you for two years." His voice cracked at the thought of what he had been through during Sherlock's 'hiatus'. "I won't let that happen again Sherlock". A tender silence dominated 221B for about half a minute before Sherlock turned to face John, his friend, "I won't be going anywhere… but please, leave me alone with Mycroft for now".

Mary was surprised at how careful Sherlock's words were, how patient he was being as he fixed his eyes on John. The doctor gave a brief nod and spoke with as little emotion as he was capable, "text me Sherlock".

"Yes" was all the detective replied, still holding eye contact. John turned to leave and Mary walked behind him, after she had given a sympathetic smile to the younger Holmes brother. The married couple picked up their coats and left the flat. Sherlock turned back to the window and watched as Mary and John got into their car and drove off into the darkness of central London.

Once again there was silence inside 221B, Mycroft remained still until his younger brother turned to face him. When Sherlock eventually did turn around, Mycroft did not see the 37 year old standing before him. Instead he saw a vulnerable boy, struggling to comprehend the events that had taken place between last week and mere hours ago.

"I think you have some explaining to do, brother mine" Sherlock flatly addressed Mycroft, he gestured towards John's chair indicating that Mycroft should sit down to have this conversation. Mycroft sat down in the chair and stared at the rug beneath his shoes. After a contemplative pause Mycroft began to speak in his trademark matter of fact tone.

"The man you know as Jim Moriarty is not behind this."

"Of course he isn't, I saw him kill himself. And as I said earlier this afternoon I even went to the trouble of a minor overdose to prove it. Who is behind it then? This already feels as though it is going to be a very interesting case" Sherlock crossed his legs and leant toward his brother. Mycroft continued, "Our intelligence tells us that this chain of events was orchestrated by a man named Jonathan Blake. Blake is a very rich man who likes to bank roll a number of prominent criminals, making profit when their illicit pursuits are successful. It would seem that his preferred criminal activity is that of drug dealing. MI6 have reason to believe that he is the primary, and possibly only supplier of imported heroin, and British synthetic street drugs including cocaine and MDMA. He is at the top of a hierarchy of drug dealers. From what we know at this stage, he has faked the return of Moriarty for two reasons. One is that there are a number of people who were in financial debt to Moriarty's web when he died on the roof of Bart's hospital, faking his return should be enough to convince those indebted to pay who they believe to be Moriarty. The second reason; is us."

Sherlock said nothing as he processed the new information, he unconsciously poured himself a cup of Earl Grey from the tray that Mary had left on the table. He added one sugar cube and stirred it. "Us?"

Mycroft sighed, there was a dark look in his eye as he too poured himself a cup of Earl Grey, added a splash of milk but no sugar. "From what we can gather, Blake and Moriarty were familiar with each other. Of course this is expected, two very powerful criminals, both at the top of an extensive chain of command. They rarely worked in league with one another, Blake very much specialised in drugs, whereas Moriarty didn't specialise at all, he had his fingers in much more. They went about their business in peace, neither man was going to report the other, and neither man had much interest in getting involved in the other's affairs. A part from the obvious there is one thing that both men had in common; a somewhat obsessive hatred of a Holmes."

"And which Holmes does Blake have an obsessive hatred of?"

"Sherrinford."

The colour disappeared from Sherlock's already pasty face, he took another sip of his tea and stared straight ahead. He obviously wasn't looking at the kitchen, but gazing straight through it. Mycroft was unsure as to whether Sherlock was thinking or merely staring blankly. "You remember what Sherrinford was… before…"

"Yes. I suppose that Blake was a rival, perhaps somebody who suffered. This caused an obsessive hatred which I assume Moriarty encouraged when he learnt of it. But I don't understand. Why does that put me in any danger? Sherrinford is incarcerated, and even if he wasn't it is not as though I would be at risk physically or emotionally if some harm were to come to him. I cannot see how this is any problem of ours Mycroft."

Sherlock was looking deep into Mycroft's tired eyes, Mycroft spoke carefully; "There are two elements of this which I am unclear on. The first is how Blake was able to pose as Moriarty, and how he was able to project him over every single screen in the United Kingdom. This suggests that Blake's link to Moriarty is perhaps more evolved than we currently have evidence to suggest. This puts you in potential danger Sherlock. Gaining more information on Blake will be tricky, MI6 are working on it as we speak, but this will undoubtedly be a slow process…" Mycroft lowered his voice "Sherlock we are going to have to visit our brother. He can tell us more about Blake and give detailed insight into what might be motivating him."

Sherlock stood, he picked up his violin and propped it under his chin, he walked back to the spot next to the window in which he had been standing before John and Mary left. He held the bow in his right hand and closed his eyes. "Why are you allowing me to be part of this Mycroft?" for once Sherlock asked a genuine question without sounding impatient or angry.

"Because, brother dear" Mycroft too, stood up and straightened out his suit jacket, "This is work. And I don't want to receive another list from you. Also, I believe you will be able to talk to Sherrinford. I think it will be highly unlikely he will be very receptive to me at all, given… the circumstances. I will send a car tomorrow for 9AM."

"Are you certain that this case will decrease the chances of another list…?" Sherlock's eyebrows quirked at he spoke.

"No Sherlock. I am never sure. But I'll be there for you regardless. 9AM tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded and began to play his violin, Mycroft took this as his prompt to leave. Wordlessly he left his brother's flat and got into the black car that awaited him. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be even longer, so much history was about to be so unceremoniously dug up.

Sherlock watched his brother leave, as he had watch the Watsons leave half an hour earlier. Sherlock had given John his word, he would text him. But right at this moment, Sherlock took solace in the music he was playing. He tried his hardest to focus his mind on playing his violin, but it was impossible. He had not heard his eldest brother's name mentioned for twenty years, and tomorrow he was to meet with him.


	2. Chapter 2- Promise

John couldn't help but fidget as he sat at his kitchen table with his wife. It had been 4 hours since they left 221B and John was anxious to receive the text from Sherlock that he was promised. If Moriarty was really back, he would come for Sherlock, everyone would be in danger, including his little girl who was due to be born in 13 days. John couldn't help but replay the events that happened at the pool all those years ago: "I will burn the heart out of you". In the year or so that Sherlock had been back, he had shown that he really did have a heart. His speech at the wedding was so unexpectedly heartfelt and his shooting Magnussen was so clearly out of care, whatever the detective claimed. John didn't even want to think about what burning the heart out of Sherlock Holmes would be like. Sherlock had declared this afternoon that Moriarty wasn't back, but he had only just regained consciousness from an overdose, so John wasn't going to rule anything out.

"John, love?"

John looked at his wife, her face was expectant as though she had asked a question and was awaiting the answer. John assumed this is what had happened, that he was so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't heard her the first time.

"Hmm?" he replied

"I said your mobile just vibrated" Mary has his phone in her hand; she was smiling encouragingly as she passed it over to John.

 _M isn't back. Lots to explain. Baker St when you are able- SH_

John was immediately flooded with relief that, at least for now, Moriarty was still dead. However it wasn't long before feelings of dread and trepidation settled in, who was behind this then? Is it someone we know of already? John wouldn't like to admit it to anybody, but there was also a wave of excitement, a thrill that could only be created when Sherlock Holmes and his frankly ridiculous adventures were in your life.

"What is it John?" Mary gently reached toward John; she placed her hand on his and looked at him with her kind, warm eyes.

John cleared his throat, "Moriarty isn't back. Lots to explain. Baker Street when you are able" he read from the screen of his iPhone.

"Right, yeah that does sound like a lot to explain. Do you want to pop over now? I want a bath and an early night anyway."

"Are you sure?" John asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Yep, of course" Mary smiled. John stood up and made his way around the table, he put his arm round his wife's shoulders.

"I don't know what time I will be back, but I'll text you. Call if anything happens or you need me. And, thank you Mrs. Watson, what would I be without you?" He kissed her cheek and she chuckled lightly,

"Well Doctor Watson, stop flattering me, you're needed".

John grabbed his coat from the hallway and left out the back door. He started on his way to the tube station and text Sherlock

 _Right, am on my way now, see you shortly. JW_

Sherlock put down his phone, he estimated that John would arrive in 23 and a half minutes, he remained still for a minute or so considering what to do with the time before John walked up the stairs to 221B. It wasn't enough time to start doing a new experiment, or read anything, but Sherlock despised waiting. Waiting was the very thing that created boredom and boredom was a dangerous poison in life. The purpose waiting is purely to do nothing until you are able to do what it is you want to do. No, waiting was a tedious thing and Sherlock couldn't face doing it. Sherlock found himself gazing at the foot of the sofa, where his slipper was hidden. He wasn't sure why he still hid cigarettes or related smoking paraphernalia, he lived alone now, there was no one to hide anything from. Not even his brother expressed an issue with smoking. He calculated that there was enough time to have a cigarette out of his bedroom window, spray some deodorant, shut his door again and brush his teeth so that John would be none the wiser when he arrived.

Sherlock enjoyed a deep inhalation, relishing the nicotine buzz that coursed through his body and made him pleasantly light-headed. He wasn't smoking much, it was a habit he reserved only for when he was most bored or stressed. In this case he was a mixture of both. Of course he was bored simply waiting for his friend, and he was somewhat stressed. Sherlock never liked to admit when he was stressed, he hated the way that people change their behaviours around you after they learn such a thing. He wasn't ashamed of it though; stress is a biological process, simply a response to certain environmental factors. In fairness, Sherlock thought to himself, being exiled then being "un-exiled" because your arch nemesis has apparently returned, then finding out it is an unknown criminal with a psychopathic hatred of a brother that you have not spoken to, or about for 20 years whilst trying to make it through the arse end of a come down made up a stressful day. Sherlock finished his cigarette, flicked it out of the window and executed the rest of his plan; spraying, closing the door and brushing his teeth. Then he made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. John was typically British in that when a crisis ensued, the kettle boiled. There are some things in life that only tea can make better.

Sherlock was sat in his usual chair when he heard the familiar sound of John's footsteps on the stairs, "I've made tea, consider it repayment for the tea I denied you earlier." Sherlock waved his hand in the direction of the tray of tea he had prepared.

"Er, okay, cheers" John spoke with apprehension. He wasn't sure what he expected to find when he arrived at Baker Street, but Sherlock seemed as composed as ever, and incredibly in one of his better moods. John made his way over, and sat in his chair, facing the detective.

"You are worried John." Sherlock's tone was flat and he eyed his friend carefully. John took a sip of his tea, deciding it was too hot to drink and let out a deep breath. "Yeah, I am. I've been worried since the moment you took the gun out of my pocket at Appledore. I've been waiting to find out whether the psychopath who promised to burn you has returned all day. Yeah, you could say I am worried."

Sherlock put his tea down beside him, his eyes darting around his flat. This was a sign of nervousness or anxiety that he had exhibited since he was a boy. He bit his top lip and sat forwards in his chair. "I'm not sure where to start." John was surprised at this declaration, Sherlock rarely admitted when he was unsure or wrong about anything. John sat silently looking at Sherlock who was now staring towards the foot of the sofa.

"Cigarettes" John followed Sherlock's gaze, knowing that this was a hiding place.

"Very few people admit such habits to their doctor, or such weaknesses to a brave man."

"Just cigarettes?" John asked sceptically

"Yes."

"Well your smoking habit isn't my top concern at the moment to be honest Sherlock" John's words were more apathetic than they were cutting, and it was to these words that Sherlock turned his gaze back to fix on John's.

"You might change your mind after I tell you what you want to know."

"Maybe, we can't be sure unless you tell me" John tried sipping his tea again, it was still fractionally too hot but it was just about drinkable. At this Sherlock stood up and in three strides made his way back to the spot he stood in this afternoon, he resumed his staring out of the window.

"You have never asked me about my drug use." Sherlock's voice had dropped an octave and taken on much more of a serious tone than when he had first offered John tea.

John was surprised to hear Sherlock bringing up this sensitive topic, and he was careful in formulating his response. It is true he had never asked Sherlock about his drug habit, he had always felt it was a conversation that Sherlock would shut down immediately simply because it was likely to highlight Sherlock's weaknesses and vulnerabilities. "I always got the impression that you didn't want to talk to me about it. So instead I focused on the present, trying to make sure you stayed clean, although it seems as though I may have been quite blind."

"You must know, today… at the air strip, it was a one off… Being exiled threatened to be terribly boring… I need you to make sure I do, broadly speaking, stay clean John" Sherlock looked over his shoulder to face his best friend, "Do you promise?"

John's face softened considerably and he answered confidently "Not sure what broadly clean is, but yes. Of course Sherlock."

The detective nodded, "Good." Sherlock moved to sit back in his chair, thinking over how he should begin explaining everything to John. "Moriarty isn't back, the video clip was orchestrated by a man called Jonathan Blake".


	3. Chapter 3- Scotch

A/N this one is a bit longer and its fairly dialogue heavy. If you're reading this chapter then thanks for sticking with it. I'll try to update as regularly as I can.

"Jonathan Blake is a large scale criminal, according to Mycroft he is at the top of a hierarchy of drug dealers such that most, if not all, imported heroin and British synthetic drugs including cocaine and MDMA are essentially controlled by him."

John nodded taking in the information that Sherlock had imparted upon him, thus far there was nothing particularly worrying about what he was being told. John wondered whether Sherlock had mentioned the issue of drugs earlier because of these revelations concerning Jonathan Blake, but John doubted it. Drug dealers exist everywhere; it would not be the case that Sherlock was worried for his own health purely because he was taking on a case involving a high profile drug dealer. Perhaps it was because of this afternoon, but John was inclined to believe it was a one off. Probably related to his exile, as Sherlock had just claimed.

"Mycroft believes, based on information gathered by MI6, that Blake is faking the return of Moriarty, in part, so that he can convince those who owed Moriarty money before he died to pay up. Evidence tells us that Moriarty and Blake were familiar with each other's existence and criminal activities, and that they must have been on at least neutral terms because they were able to co-exist." Sherlock paused to consider what to say next, he knew that it did not matter how he phrased this, John would react emotionally. "Mycroft postulates that Moriarty allowed Jonathan Blake to continue operating as a drug lord, and somewhat of a gangster because of one crucial sentiment both men shared."

"And what was that?" John was anxious to understand the full story, the way that Sherlock had been that evening was unusual; distant and then so incredibly open. Possibly still high. John hated being in the dark in these kinds of situations.

"Well, it seems that both Moriarty and Blake shared a rather obsessive and passionate hatred of a Holmes." Sherlock spoke carefully, as though any word might cause the floor to collapse beneath them.

"…Okay, that does seem to be a trend amongst psychopathic and powerful criminals. So, given that I have never heard of Blake, and it sounds as though you hadn't either until today, I presume that Mycroft is the Holmes that Blake has an obsessive and passionate hatred of?" John was trying his best to sound nonchalant, but he was conscious that Sherlock would pick up every slight emotion that flicked across his eyes or rippled in his face. He was never confident in his guesswork when sat in front of the world's only consulting detective.

"No. Not Mycroft. Sherrinford." Sherlock spoke in a barely audible, yet sinister whisper.

"Who is Sherrinford?" John's brow had furrowed and his voice was genuinely full of an inquisitive confusion. Sherlock, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath and squeezed both hands into a fist, upon exhaling he let his hands fall open again. "Sherrinford is my eldest brother." Sherlock spoke evenly but his facial expressions betrayed him, he was no longer holding his stoney, archaic look. John looked intently at him. He looked younger, like a boy.

"Right, okay… I didn't know you had another brother… why have you never mentioned him before?"

There it was, Sherlock thought, that sound of hurt behind John's words. The detective was outstanding at reading and seeing emotions in other people, he was even a fairly good actor when it came to feigning those emotions himself. But he found it very difficult to deal with those emotions in people that he cared about. It didn't matter what he said to John, he wouldn't be able to convey all of the things he wanted to. Already Sherlock was starting to feel anxious, he disliked having to revisit any memory or piece of information that he had tried, but failed, to delete.

"John… I haven't so much as heard Sherrinford's name for nearly twenty years. It's a long, complicated story… he, well we, my family I mean, we don't talk about him. Sherrinford is incarcerated. He has been for almost two decades." Sherlock stumbled over his words. John had only seen him do so once before; in front of the woman.

John too, was lost for words. He had absolutely no idea that Sherlock, his best friend, his best man, had another brother. And yet here was Sherlock, stating that he did indeed have a second brother, but that he was incarcerated and ultimately had been cut off from the Holmes family for twenty years. As ever the biggest concern that John had in all of this was how Sherlock was acting right now. He was obviously stressed thinking about and talking about Sherrinford. Before speaking John made a concerted effort to sound calm, hoping that this would help to keep Sherlock reasonably calm too. "Okay, I understand. What did he do Sherlock? And why would this Jonathan Blake be using Moriarty to get to him?"

Sherlock chewed on the corner of his bottom lip for a minute while he considered how to answer this, then he composed himself to deliver his response, when he did begin to speak it was in his trademark quick, concise and deductive voice. "Sherrinford is twelve years older than me. He has a brilliant mind, as you'd expect a Holmes brother to. He is incarcerated because of a huge number of things. Sherrinford was somewhat of a high class gangster. After graduating from Cambridge with a first in Law and Economics Sherrinford found his way into Government as a behind the scenes legal advisor to Thatcher's and Major's governments. Predictably this led to Sherrinford socialising and generally becoming familiar with people of political significance, and, naturally the upper middle classes in general. Sherrinford and a friend from university who was also consulting with the government started a business dealing drugs at social events. Gradually this business expanded, as it did the dealings and inner workings became predictably more violent and illegal. Eventually Sherrinford had established himself as a well-respected man by day and much feared man by night. I remember him fondly though. When he would come to my parent's house when I was younger he would bring interesting presents, books, board games and spend time with me. He was a much more attentive older brother than Mycroft. In the mid nineties a number of high profile scandals went through the newspapers and through government. People of significance, MPs, Barristers, bankers, started to disappear and turn up dead. The media would report these incidents as natural causes, suicides, or if it was particularly tricky to lie they wouldn't report it at all. Private investigations would show that the victims had a drug problem and a series of debts. Somehow Sherrinford was never proven to be directly implicated but it was obvious to a few, knowing people that he was responsible. He had gone from being a suave man behind the scenes in government who controlled the dealings of drugs to the men who run this country, to becoming a murderous gangster. When I was eighteen, Sherrinford came to my parents home. My parents were away on holiday in Rome, but I had returned home from school between finishing my A levels and starting university. Sherrinford was not as calm or attentive as usual, he told me to go and pack a weekend bag and get in his car. I asked him why, where we were going…."

Sherlock seemed to have involuntarily stopped talking at this point. He looked pain stricken as he stared past John into the kitchen. The kitchen was unusually tidy, John had noticed while helping to make tea this afternoon that there were no dismembered animals or body parts in the fridge. It suddenly occurred to him that this was probably because Sherlock did not expect to return to Baker Street. He must have believed that he would land in Eastern Europe this evening and remain there for 6 months. Hence there being no equipment or specimens for experiments which were generally commonplace in this kitchen. The farewell at the airstrip this afternoon felt like years ago.

"Sherlock mate, are you alright? We don't have to do this now, if you don't want"

Sherlock frowned at himself and cleared his throat "when I asked Sherrinford where we were going he pulled a gun on me. He pointed it and he said he didn't want to have to use it but I couldn't ask anymore questions, I just had to be quick and get in the car. I was essentially his hostage for 3 days, although I don't think I was ever in any serious danger. He never demanded a ransom, it was almost as if he just wanted not to be alone for those few days. He opened up, talked a lot about trust and mistakes. And, he introduced me to heroin. One of the obvious downturns in his criminal career was when he began to use the drugs he sold. He told me heroin was wonderful because it slowed down his overactive mind. He guessed that my mind was just as fast and unrelenting, he wasn't wrong. From that night on I have been addicted to that feeling of calm, at least psychologically. Eventually the car was tracked and on our way out of a petrol station five undercover police cars blocked us in, they arrested Sherrinford. It transpires that Mycroft had spearheaded the chase, he was only twenty five, working in Whitehall, the Holmes name had done wonders for him. I loathe the notion of heritage but historically the Holmes family have been one of affluence and influence. Of course Sherrinford, at least from the outside, had become a valued and respected man in the sphere of government. Mycroft's success is at least partially down to how Sherrinford was liked and perceived. Mycroft's intellect and knowledge of Sherrinford meant that he found us faster than anyone else in the UK would have done. He was also merciless, his recommendation was indefinite and isolated incarceration, based on a character profile he offered as a witness who had known Sherrinford for his whole life. Because Sherrinford was never in the public eye, and exposing all of his crimes would have been to expose the debacuhary of some of the most powerful men in the country, a private and obviously illegal trial was conducted without a jury. Sherrinford was found guilty of 8 counts of murder, drug trafficking, kidnap, possession of a firearm and 12 counts of theft."

John sat opposite his friend, frozen in shock. Shit, this brother Sherlock had never mentioned had kidnapped him at gunpoint the last time he had seen him. Sherlock's explanation was a lot of information, but it felt less coherent than what he knew Sherlock would have liked to have been. Although Sherlock had rushed through the facts, John had gotten the gist. He thought about asking Sherlock to elaborate on parts of the story, what had Mycroft said exactly? What did Sherlock's parents think had happened? Is this why Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get on? There were so many things John wanted to ask, but he knew tonight wasn't the night. "Wow, well to be honest Sherlock, I'm not sure what to say to all of that."

"Of course you aren't John. There is nothing appropriate to say, but I hope you can see why I have never mentioned him, why Mycroft has never mentioned him." Sherlock replied

"Yes, yeah I can see exactly why." John nodded, unsure of what to say next.

"But, what relevance does Sherrinford have to Jonathan Blake? Well, obviously a history of drug dealing, violence and probably murder are things both have in common. If Blake hates Sherrinford we can only assume it is because of a sour past encounter. We have no idea what that past encounter is, but if we are to understand Blake, his intentions and calculate what threat he is to me, you, Mary… everyone, then we must ask Sherrinford. Mycroft is sending me a car tomorrow morning at 9AM."

Jesus, John thought his relationship with Harry was difficult, but being a Holmes brother seemed to be infinitely more complicated. "And is that what is making you worry about relapsing? Because you are going to see your brother, and the last time you were with him was the first time you used?"

Sherlock put his hands together, like a steeple under his chin. "I have been using heroin on and off since I was eighteen. I have overdosed almost fatally twice, both accidental. When I was twenty seven until I was thirty two I speedballed, on and off. I overdosed three times, once was accidental. Today was an example of a minor overdose, that's happened maybe 7 or 8 times."

The two men shared a knowing look, John understood what this implied but was so taken aback at Sherlock's stark and unusual honesty that he was struggling to process everything that he was being told. He sat silently until Sherlock spoke again, this time he spoke in his impatient matter of fact tone, "John, whilst I would certainly say that it is probable I will remain clean and mentally collected, I ask you as a doctor, and a friend, to help me to not deteriorate."

"I will always be there to make sure you don't deteriorate. If you become too emotional though, try to talk about it. I know you despise the notion of talking about feelings. But… well its better than shooting up." John was tentative, he didn't want the detective to immediately become defensive, but given this unusual admittance of emotion, he felt he should try to leave the door open. Try to show his friend that he can talk openly, at any time.

Sherlock nodded and stood up "Like I said this afternoon, I am not an addict. I have a psychological addiction to the feeling of overwhelming calm in my thought processes, and an addiction to a heightened thought processes. The work is usually enough. On the rare occasion that I use, the need is fleeting and easily satisfied. I have been in the darkest pits of addiction, and I've been through the turmoil of detox and recovery more than once. Honestly, I'd rather talk to Mrs Hudson for 12 hours a day than go through withdrawal again. If I feel as though it is necessary, don't worry, I will talk to you. Are you staying tonight, or going back to Mary?"

John felt somewhat proud of his friend. He looked at his watch and realised it was 11pm, given how late it was and what information Sherlock had just divulged to him, he thought it probably best to stay in the flat tonight. Just in case Sherlock needed anything, he would never ask for it of course, but John would notice if there was anything Sherlock needed. "It's quite late, I'll stay here if that's okay?" John stood up too.

The taller man nodded, "Of course, I'm not sure whether Mrs Hudson has made your bed up though. You might have to do that yourself. I'm going to have a scotch. It's been a long day, have one with me before you go to bed." It was more of a command than a question.

"Sure that's a good idea, given your come down?"

"It'll be fine." Sherlock affirmed.

John sighed, "Certainly, you pour me a tipple while I go and sort my bed out" John got his phone out of his pocket as he made his way over to the door leading to his old bedroom "I'll just text Mary as well, to say I'm staying". Sherlock waved a hand as he turned around in recognition of John's statement and moved into the kitchen to retrieve the scotch. John went into his old room and was relieved to find the bed was made up. Just as well, he really couldn't be bothered to battle with sheets and a duvet at this time of night. Sherlock was right, it had been a long day and he was tired.

 _I am going to stay at Baker St. tonight but will be back for breakfast. Too much to explain by text but don't worry, we aren't in imminent danger. See you tomorrow x_

John sent the message to his wife, and left the room, he was going to enjoy this scotch.


	4. Chapter 4- A Vow

John wandered back into the living room of 221B to find Sherlock sat in his chair, staring intently at his tumbler and the thick golden liquid inside it. He had only seen Sherlock drink a handful of times, once when he was shaken up at Baskerville, drunk on John's disaster of a stag night and drinking the obligatory wine and champagne on his wedding day. "You don't often drink do you Sherlock?" John had no hidden agenda with this conversation, he was simply voicing his thoughts, a typically Sherlockian thing to do.

"No, alcohol isn't my preferred drug. But I am a middle class Brit, and at 11pm it feels as though we've had our fill of tea and we should move on to something a little more potent"

John nodded and sat down in his chair, picking up his own scotch and sniffing it gently. He took a sip and savoured the burn of the alcohol at the back of his throat. His sister's alcoholism had really put him off drink, but Sherlock was right, sometimes a stiff drink before bed was appropriate. For a while there was silence between the two men, undoubtedly both were considering the events of today and mentally preparing themselves for what would happen in the coming days. Sherlock, rather surprisingly was the first to break the silence.

"The mission to Eastern Europe would have been a suicide mission you know?"

John took another swig, deep down he knew that this was true, but thinking about it was virtually impossible. He had already endured the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. The relief that Sherlock emerged two years later, very much alive, was indescribable. The notion that this time Sherlock was really, actually walking to his death had been something that John was unwilling to acknowledge. He would have spent the rest of his life convincing himself that Sherlock was living amongst Eastern Europeans albeit incognito. "Yeah, I know, I just didn't want to think about it."

"I honestly thought that was it, I've been faced with death a great number of times, but this time, there was no way out." Sherlock was virtually mumbling to himself, still staring at the liquid as he gently swirled it around the glass. John wanted to ask his friend about the two non-accidental overdoses, he wanted to know and he wanted Sherlock to confide in him. John knew Sherlock better than most, perhaps better than anyone but there was still so much that he didn't know. It was also a genuine possibility that Sherlock might answer him tonight, he'd already been incredibly open, and planted the seeds that would inevitably grow into quite serious questions. Sherlock must have known that John would ask those questions, but it would probably have been quite unfair to ask them tonight. Once again there was silence between the men, and once again Sherlock was the one to break it.

"John, I know there is a lot that you will want to ask me after tonight. A lot about my past that, even after so many years of knowing me, you don't understand. I am sure that in the near future, I will tell you, but not tonight."

John was always amazed that Sherlock could literally see what was going on inside his head. "Yeah, okay. But please keep me in the loop. You could have died today you know, on the plane… If you want my help I need to be kept informed".

"No, I hadn't taken enough to kill me. I know what would kill me. I didn't want to die today, I had to land in Minsk, alive. I just wanted to switch off the outside world. Mycroft knows that too, that's what the list is for."

John just nodded, unsure of what he should say next. His response escaped his mouth before he had time to consider it, "You knowingly gave your life to protect mine, and my family's."

Sherlock visibly stiffened, he could sense that whether he welcomed it or not, this conversation was taking an emotional turn. "Yes. I made a vow." Sherlock took a large swig of his own drink.

"Yes I know you did. Thank you Sherlock. That means more to me, than I think you will ever know. And listen, whatever happens tomorrow, this week, ever… you have me to confide in. You have my help, always."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and looked toward his friend, "Thank you John."

The two men finished their drinks in the quiet of the strangely empty flat. At 12:15am John slowly stood up. "I'm going to get to bed. If you want or need anything, you know where I am"

Sherlock's head moved very slightly, it was a nod by his own standards at least. "Goodnight John."


	5. Chapter 5- Recall

Mycroft walked up the stairs to his brother's flat, one at a time, slowly. He entered the living room to find it empty, but the door to Sherlock's bedroom was open. Mycroft walked toward the bedroom door, catching sight of his brother looking at himself in his mirror. "Are you ready Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at his brother's reflection in the mirror. Mycroft was beginning to look old, his hair was receding and there were lines around his eyes. Sherlock took a suit jacked from out of his wardrobe and started to put it on. Mycroft spoke as he watched, "You've been smoking in here" his voice wasn't accusative or aggressive, it was merely a statement.

"Yes, I am ready". Sherlock blatantly ignored the smoking comment and began to pick up his phone, keys and his wallet, once he had retrieved these he moved to leave his bedroom. Mycroft pre-empted his brother's exit and moved to the side so that Sherlock's slender figure could slot between his body and the door frame. Mycroft turned and followed, as he approached the living room he found his brother at the door to the stairs, "Shall we?" Sherlock asked as he opened the door, and Mycroft nodded whilst stepping out of the flat. Before leaving the building altogether Sherlock took his coat from the hook and carried it in his arm to the black car that was waiting outside.

Sherlock stared out of the window and the brothers did not say a word to each other until they were 50 minutes outside of London. "You know Sherlock; this journey will seem much longer if you insist that we sit in silence".

"Ooh I don't know, I've been known to spend whole days in my mind palace, and its felt like minutes." Sherlock cooly countered Mycroft's vaguely impatient remark. Over the years it had become natural for any conversation between the two men to be little more than an exchange of sarcastic venom.

Mycroft persevered, "Sherrinford is in a secure unit in Norfolk, we will go to speak to him together. If at any point you want to leave, then we will do so immediately."

"You don't have to baby me, brothermine." Sherlock spat the last word with such vitriol that Mycroft waited 3 minutes before continuing.

"He will try to emotionally manipulate you Sherlock. You are more than capable of registering when someone is trying to do such a thing, and I am only reassuring you that if you wish, we will leave when you want to. It is probable that we will have to return, Sherrinford will not give us all of the information he has today, he will know that we will come back" Mycroft spoke with conviction, he knew that Sherlock would not acknowledge the emotional significance and intensity of this meeting, but wanted to make it clear that it was, broadly speaking, on his terms.

Sherlock did not respond to this at all, though Mycroft knew that it was crucial to make the point clear. He knew that Sherlock had admired Sherrinford, and that they had a much closer bond than Mycroft had ever managed to forge with Sherlock. Whilst he had very little idea of what actually happened between Sherrinford and Sherlock in those three days, all those years ago, he knew that Sherlock had been seriously affected by it. It was his bastard older brother that had first introduced and facilitated Sherlock's substance abuse. He also knew that Sherlock's mind was functioning at levels which were impossible to control, in part because of those three days with Sherrinford. Sherlock had never talked about what had happened during his time as Sherrinford's hostage, but he knew that whatever had happened, Sherlock had been damaged. Every overdose, every danger night, was because of Sherrinford, at least that's how Mycroft saw it.

Neither men spoke for the rest of the journey; Sherlock spent his time staring out the window, whilst Mycroft switched between staring out of his own window, and sending emails. As the car pulled up towards a large gate, manned by two men in security jackets, both men stiffened. One of the security guards approached the car once it came to a halt and Mycroft pushed the button to undo his window.

"Good morning, can I see some ID please" The security guard had a Norfolk accent, and so his vows were drawn out and slow, making him sound friendly if a little bit stupid.

Mycroft passed his ID through the window, the security man's eyes widened somewhat, no doubt slightly shocked that he was dealing with a high priority gentlemen. He looked back toward Mycroft, "May I see ID for anyone else who is entering the premises today sir?"

Sherlock immediately noted the inclusion of the word sir, he smirked slightly to himself, his brother's ID card commanded more respect than any uniform he could think of. He reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. He took out his driving licence and passed it to Mycroft, who passed it on to the security guard. As the guard looked at licence Mycroft addressed him "Sherlock Holmes, my brother. I am bringing him as a guest."

"Okay, sure. I'll radio that into upstairs so that they can get the gate opened for you gentlemen", the guard handed Mycroft both cards and spoke into his radio. "Mr M Holmes, band 1, and his brother Mr S Holmes, his guest. Approved on the gate, awaiting approval on your side. Over."

A muffled response came through five seconds later "Request approved. Over." There was a buzzing sound coming from the gate and began to open slowly, the guard waved the car on to go through.

The drive leading up to the building was almost a kilometre long, winding through the woodland grounds. Sherlock couldn't help but feel perturbed at how beautiful the area of this high security prison was. It didn't seem right that petty criminals were forced to live in normal prisons, but the people who had committed some of the most despicable crimes were accommodated in relative luxury. At a break in the trees, as the private road straightened out, the building itself was revealed. It looked like a stately home, and no doubt at one point it probably was. It was large, imposing and covered in ivy. As the car ground to a halt, Sherlock moved to get out of the car, Mycroft made no such movement, saying only "wait." Sherlock closed his eyes, and did not turn to face his brother, but he did not open the door to get out. Sherlock knew exactly what Mycroft was about to say and why. The detective felt the cold apprehension sitting in the pit of his stomach, he had been drumming his finger on his left hand in the pattern of the Chaconne by Bach, as though he was playing it on his violin.

"Remember what I said Sherlock. We are her to gather information; Sherrinford will undoubtedly try to affect you emotionally. This will not further our pursuit of information on Blake, nor will it be a tolerable thing for either of us. If you wish to leave at any time, merely stand up and declare it. We will leave immediately." Mycroft spoke professionally, his little speech was void of any emotion whilst he spoke it, but both men understood the emotional subtext. If it gets too much, then we don't have to stay. Sherlock hated feeling anxious, it was such an illogical and pointless emotion. In times of extreme anxiety and apprehension Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, and set himself the task of recalling huge stores of information such as every type of plant that could be found in Hyde Park, and the Regents Park, and then in the grounds of his prep school, and so on and so forth. It seemed to be reasonably effective at keeping his mind focused on things that he wanted to focus on, thus relieving himself of the pain of thinking about whatever was making him nervous. This is what Sherlock had been doing for most of the journey. It had occurred to him, that he hadn't been in a position where he needed to force himself retreat into his mind palace since he was in Serbia. Whilst being tormented for days, he had tried to take his mind off the pain, and the fear of what was happening next. In fact he had done this each time had had been held captive, once in Latvia, once in Hungary and twice in China. Sherlock knew this meeting with Sherrinford was not going to involve any physical pain, but he knew it'd be torturous, on a number of levels.

Sherlock turned to his brother, making eye contact and holding it. He nodded and waited for Mycroft to acknowledge that his response had been sufficient. Mycroft did and both men got out of the car. They both did up the top button their jackets and straightened out their suits in perfect synchronicity, together they approached the heavy wooden door at the front of the building where a short, stocky man was waiting for them.


	6. Chapter 6- An age

**A/N Cheers for sticking with it thus far. We meet Sherrinford in this chapter, I hope you enjoy it x**

"Good morning Mr. Holmes, and erm, Mr Holmes!" The short man chuckled at his own greeting but neither Mycroft or Sherlock reacted, other than to continue walking towards the entrance where the man stood. The man was short and stocky, he held himself confidently, his shoulders drawn back very slightly to emphasise the size of his chest. Sherlock eyed the man as he approached him; military background, aged between 40 and 43. Wedding ring not removed for at least 8 years, his finger was thinner when it was first put on. Father of one… no, two small children, remanence of spilt milk on his black trousers and phone in his shirt pocket where he could immediately feel it vibrate, a precaution usually exercised by new, worried parents. His shoes were old, the soles were fairly worn but they had been recently polished, this man took pride in his uniform suggesting he took his work seriously.

"My name is Chris, I am head of Secure Services here at Haveringland, I believe we have communicated by email Mr Holmes". Chris looked toward Mycroft expectantly, still maintaining his welcoming smile.

"Yes, thank you for your co-operation." Mycroft nodded and returned an overtly faked smile in response. Sherlock remained still, shifting his gaze to the impressive building before him.

"Not a problem. I will show you through to Sherrinford's wing. He is aware that he will be receiving visitors but he does not know any more than that." Chris turned and entered through the open door that he had been standing in, Sherlock and Mycroft followed silently. It was obvious, to both men that Sherrinford would know exactly who was visiting him, not only was he gifted with the brilliant mind of a Holmes but he would not be accustom to receiving any visitors other than psychiatrists, or high ranking prison wardens. Also, he will have seen the news that Moriarty was 'back'.

The building itself was marvellous, furnished authentically and with the same grandeur that the exterior radiated. The two men followed Chris through a door and into a small room with another door at the end guarded by an armed security worker. Chris stopped half way into the room, which was empty except for a vase of flowers sat on a windowsill. "As negotiated there will be no security present at this visit, however we will switch our CCTV on, there will be no sound recorded it will simply serve as evidence in the event that one of you is harmed. Bob, our guard, will be outside and will enter if he hears elevated and aggressive voices. Again, this is a mandatory security measure which I hope you understand."

"Yes we understand." Mycroft spoke quietly, his eyes fixed on his younger brother. He could tell Sherlock was tapping his fingers in the pocket of his jacket, a clear sign that the detective was getting increasingly nervous. For a moment Mycroft considered taking Sherlock back to the car and having him sent back to Baker Street, this meeting was going to be very difficult for everyone, especially Sherlock. But, regrettably it had to happen; Sherrinford would not be receptive to Mycroft if it were only the two of them. Partly because of the extreme animosity that hung between the two older brothers, and partly because Sherrinford would know that he could afford to be obstinate and unhelpful, because eventually in order to ensure Sherlock's safety Mycroft would relent and bring Sherlock along. Choosing to bring Sherlock of his own accord was in some ways, a first victory. And of course, Sherlock would not concede and get back in the car now that he stood in front of the door which Sherrinford was behind.

"Good. I will leave you now." Chris nodded at both men and left the small room, closing the door behind him.

"Are you ready Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock's face hardened into determination and he stepped toward Bob, the security guard, Mycroft followed at his side.

Bob typed a code into the key pad on the door and opened it fractionally, he let go of the handle and resumed to stand in front of the door looking out into the small, empty room. Mycroft reached out and pushed the door open further, Sherlock following in tow.

Mycroft and Sherlock moved into the room and closed the door behind them. Sherlock had to control himself to prevent himself from taking a large gasp of air in as he looked toward his eldest brother. Sherrinford was sat at a table with a teapot and three teacups set out, he was reading a newspaper, and gave no signs of recognition that anyone had entered the room at all. Sherlock studied what he could see of the man in front of him, he had always looked much more like Sherrinford than he had Mycroft. Sherrinford had the high, pronounced cheekbones that Sherlock had been complemented on so many times before, although a weeks' worth of dark facial hair smattered with white covered Sherrinford's own facial contours. Sherrinford still had a full head of slightly curly hair, although about 40% of it was greying, he had more hair than most men closing in on the 50 year mark. He was dressed in a white long sleeve shirt and navy blue trousers, and it seemed that he had maintained his slender figure. The trousers looked tailored, so he must have some access to cash flow despite his being incarcerated, Sherlock thought to himself.

Eventually the older man closed the newspaper and looked up towards his guests. Sherlock felt a shiver shoot up his spine as he made eye contact with his estranged brother. Sherrinford had the exact same blue-green eyes as the detective; it was like Sherlock was looking into a mirror that aged you twelve years. For years Sherlock had worked hard to delete any memories of Sherrinford that still lingered in his mind palace, the information was likely to be irrelevant and they only provoked a foreign sense of sentiment that the detective did not know how to handle. Such efforts all felt for nothing now that he was looking into those eyes.

"I hope you don't intend to stand there the whole time, please sit down. It's been an age." Sherrinford had retained his acute middle class accent, and his deep calming tone that reminded Sherlock of Christmases when his oldest brother was at home and keen to give him his attention and time. There was a pang of something unidentifiable in his stomach at hearing Sherrinford speak, he forced it out of his mind and began to move towards the table. Mycroft followed Sherlock and sat down next to him, so that the pair of them were facing Sherrinford, who smiled as he began to pour tea into the teacups. Once the teacups were full, Sherrinford put two sugars into his, the other men followed in suit; silently adding the relevant amounts of milk and sugar to their drinks. Once this wordless ritual was complete all three men leant back slightly in their chairs and crossed their left leg over their right.

"I assume that you are here about the 'miss me stunt'? I must confess I was slightly concerned that you were going to tell me that one of our dear old parents had kicked the bucket, Mycroft… But since you've brought Lock along, I doubt that is the case."

Sherlock winced at the use of the childhood nickname 'Lock', no one had called him that since Sherrinford did last, twenty years ago.

"No, our parents are fine. Indeed we are here about the 'miss me' stunt as you so elegantly termed it" Mycroft replied tersely. It was rare that Mycroft showed any signs of discomfort in conversation, but it was clear he was immediately exhibiting signs of impatience and contempt for his older brother.

"You think I can enlighten you in some way?" Sherrinford mocked, he had such an air of charisma that it was hardly difficult to see that he had been a trusted favourite amongst so many powerful men for such a long time. A smug arrogance was something that all three brothers were gifted with, or cursed with, depending on how one viewed it.

"Perhaps. Intelligence suggests that a certain Jonathan Blake is the architect behind the appearance of Moriarty's image. We would like you to tell us what you know about Blake, so that we can discern what threat he poses to Sherlock". Mycroft sipped tentatively at his tea.

Sherrinford turned to face Sherlock, his eyes lingering momentarily before he too, picked up his tea to take a sip. "From what I gather from the papers Sherlock is always in danger, and he seems to quite enjoy it. Yet you say 'we'… Perhaps you should let Sherlock deal with it, his way Mycroft, he isn't a child after all".

Mycroft firmly placed his teacup into its saucer and fixated his stare upon his older brother, he spoke slowly and with vitriol, "I hardly think it wise to take brotherly advice from you."

Sherlock was listening, but desperately wishing that he wasn't. He knew he had to speak now, to remind his brothers that he was in the room, that it wasn't acceptable to talk about him rather than to him. He spoke before Sherrinford had the opportunity to reply, "My way then. How much danger do you think I am in, if Blake is indeed behind this little ruse?" Sherlock did well to keep his tone casual, and his facial expressions under control. His interjection seemed to take the other two men by surprise.

Sherrinford sighed, and pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. He lit the cigarette and ran his hand through his hair; the action was so strikingly Sherlockian that it served only to remind Sherlock how much he had in common with Sherrinford, even down to the subtle behaviours he had inherited from him. "Blake himself won't be too much trouble, it is his association with Moriarty that will be of concern. Do you know the extent of their association?" Sherrinford directed this question toward Sherlock but Mycroft answered immediately, having regained his composure. "No, but MI6 are investigating it as we speak,"

Ignoring Mycroft, Sherrinford continued to address Sherlock, "This should be your biggest concern Sherlock. His association with Moriarty is the key to how much he knows, and knowledge is power. Since brother of the year over here divulged your whole life story to Jimmy boy, Blake could know anything, from the fact that you are my brother, to the colour of your toothbrush".

Mycroft bit his lip, hoping it would keep down his fury too. But yet again Sherlock spoke before Mycroft had the chance to retaliate, "Why did you call him Jimmy?" Sherlock asked quizzically, he had once again ignored the actual statement and honed in on the subtext, the strange reference to Moriarty as Jim, suggestive of familiarity.

Sherrinford smirked, reading Sherlock's thought processed precisely, he was proud that his youngest brother had become a master of deduction, even in his absence. "Have a cigarette Sherlock, you're dying for one. Mycroft you are welcome to one as well, though these aren't low tar."

Sherlock gave a brief look to Mycroft, he was torn. Sherrinford was right, he did want a cigarette, he had wanted one since the moment that he had woken up, but had beaten the urge down and stuck three nicotine patches to his arm instead. On the other hand, he realised the symbolic significance of accepting a cigarette, and he knew that Mycroft would be keeping a watchful eye on him with regards to his potential substance abuse. On balance, Sherlock thought, this wasn't a bad thing. As much as he detested his brother interfering and nannying him, in recent years he had grown to feel some gratitude towards Mycroft for being alert to his temptations. He valued his autonomy, but he meant it when he told John that he would rather be put through the most tedious of situations than to go through withdrawal again. He reached across the table and took a cigarette, he lit it and resumed staring at Sherrinford.

"I met Jim Moriarty about 9 months before your alleged suicide" Sherrinford's face had morphed into something much more sinister and twenty years older. As Sherlock heard the words he barely suppressed a spluttering cough, choking on the smoke he had just inhaled. Sherrinford looked to Mycroft, he placed the cigarettes in front of the government official, and quietly sounded out the words "I'll explain."


	7. Chapter 7- Chai

There was very little that Mycroft was not aware of, even if he did not know the details he was usually aware of every relevant event. The very fact that Moriarty had come to see Sherrinford, if it was true (and that was yet to be verified) had completely passed him by. Mycroft took a cigarette from the packet placed in front of him, he didn't always enjoy a cigarette but… he suspected he would need something to focus on.

"How did you meet him? He must have visited you here. Mycroft, did you know about this?" Anger was visibly rising in Sherlock's face.

"No. Not at all" Mycroft answered firmly.

"Then you weren't paying enough attention Mycroft. On the 15th of every month I see doctor for a chat, just to make sure I am physically and mentally healthy. Usually I see Doctor Tamal Kareshi, nice chap. One day he was unable to make our appointment so they sent a locum doctor, supposedly. In walked Jim Moriarty. Of course, I only knew that for certain once his pictures were released after the mass break ins." Sherrinford picked up his teacup, finished the remainder of the tea and set it down on the table. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the saucer.

Sherlock took a long drag from his cigarette, "What did he want?"

"Well, he knew almost everything about you, a fair amount about Mycroft. He told me that he'd spent a while with Mycroft, learning all about Sherlock and the Holmes family. But he was very upset to hear that there was a large chunk of information that he hadn't been given- that I existed. He'd learnt that from Blake, and then arranged it so he could meet me. Clearly he believed that I possessed a whole store of knowledge about Sherlock that had been intentionally kept from him. He hated to think that you might have the upper hand, so he demanded I divulge everything that he didn't already know." There was a solemn silence between the three brothers before Sherrinford continued, "I was frankly astounded at how much he knew."

"Sherlock and I agreed to slowly feed him information. We knew the dangers and invited them. The plan worked, Sherlock has destroyed Moriarty's web and Moriarty is gone. We succeeded." The grave expression spoke volumes more than his words; Mycroft was still uncharacteristically pained when he thought about what Sherlock had sacrificed.

Sherrinford sighed, "And if Moriarty shared this information with other clients?"

Sherlock picked up another cigarette and lit it using the end of his first cigarette. "It doesn't matter. My life story was published in every newspaper in the UK. What did you tell Moriarty? What knowledge did he have that we didn't give him? Clearly this is linked to our current issue."

"I didn't tell him anything of consequence. He knew about my existence through an encounter with Jonathan Blake. Moriarty knew why I was here… So I didn't lie about the drugs, or the…." Sherrinford paused, barely whispering the final word "holiday."

Mycroft clenched his jaw tight, fuming that his older brother did not acknowledge that it was kidnap, plain and simple. "What of our parents? Sherlock and I agreed to talk truthfully about them to Moriarty but to make it clear that Sherlock had a very strained relationship, due to his substance abuse."

Sherrinford began to pour more tea into his teacup, "No. I didn't mention our parents, I said that I hadn't seen or heard from them for twenty years, that I had no idea what Sherlock's relationship with our parents was like. I didn't sell any of us out. But I consciously did my best to distance our parents from the pair of you."

"How very noble of you." Mycroft sarcastically mused as he put his cigarette out on his saucer.

"Contrary to whatever emotional tripe you've internalised Mycroft, I have no desire to destroy the lives of our family" Sherrinford spoke in the casual, bored tone that Sherlock used so very often.

"You've already shattered our parents, and ignited a deadly and constantly threatening vice in our younger brother. There is very little destruction left to desire, brother."

The emotional intensity hung above the three men, heavy and foggy. Sherlock was working hard to maintain composure, somewhat surprised that after all that Mycroft had said, and tried to communicate throughout the journey, it was he who was being drawn into an emotional and useless argument. The detective willed himself to take control, and find out crucial details about Blake, before Mycroft insisted they leave due to frustration with their complex older brother.

"Stop it. Both of you, just stop it." Sherlock uttered the words quietly but forcefully, immediately the other two Holmes brothers looked towards him hesitantly. "I want to know about Blake, that is why I am here and I will not go back to Baker Street without new information."

Sherrinford stood up, tea pot in hand, and walked towards the worktops in his kitchen area, he filled up the kettle and flicked it on. He emptied the teapot of its saturated teabags, opened his cupboard and took out a box of chai tea. "Sorry Sherlock. Chai tea, and I'll give you as much information as I can."

Sherlock nodded and waited for Sherrinford to return to the table with a fresh pot of tea. The eldest brother sat down and lit another cigarette, he fixed his blue green eyes on his baby brother, straightened himself out and began to talk, an octave lower than he had talked about the tea.

"Blake was a young man when I knew him, a graduate chemist from Imperial College London. He's gay, and he was having an affair with a Professor at his university, Professor Dominic Hayweather. Hayweather had just won a bid for funding from the Government for research into drugs to tackle HIV evolving into AIDs. I got to know Hayweather through a number of social events, he had a taste for cocaine, and rather mildly described it as "terribly moreish". I paid Hayweather a visit at his lab one morning, and found him at a microscope with Blake. Blake had created a synthetic alternative to cocaine which had an active and profound effect on the user which lasted about twice as long as the cocaine I was dealing. I struck up a friendship of sorts with him, he was a bright young lad and fairly willing to help develop synthetic street drugs, for a sizeable cut in profit. I paid him well and ensured his back was covered, so that he didn't jeopardise his chances at becoming a pharmaceutical researcher. He developed an incredibly potent strand of MDMA which we used in some of the first ecstasy tablets of the nineties. After about three years of working together, he asked me for a much more substantial sum of money. I refused, so Blake took his recipe to a sect of Russian mafia dealers. Of course, I wasn't best pleased about this, my drugs were better than anything else you could purchase, until the point where Blake sold my recipe to some Russian mobsters. One evening I went to pay Blake a visit; he was fucking his professor when I popped round. He was very angry and very confrontational, and he wound up injured. Regrettably so did his professor, and unfortunately he later died from the injuries he sustained. I never saw or heard from Blake again after that. But as Moriarty informed me, Blake never forgot, nor did he forgive the pain I caused him."

Sherlock and Mycroft took a moment to process everything that Sherrinford had just said. Sherlock stared out of the window blankly, churning over in his palace all of the details he had just heard. He felt a slight dissatisfaction at the fact that the case was so straightforward, so boring. A simple instance of revenge never made for a testing case to solve. It all seemed so obvious, Blake and Moriarty meet, somehow, and during a conversation Blake tells Moriarty about Sherrinford Holmes and how much he hates him. Moriarty relishes this information (probably) asks whether Blake was aware of me, Sherlock Holmes. They develop a slightly psychopathic bond, and form some kind of agreement about what each man gets for an exchange of information and a hand in attacking the Holmes each man respectively hates.

"Ugh, that's boring. Simple case of revenge. We find Blake, which shouldn't be too difficult if he is such a prominent drug lord, arrest him, we all stay safe. Dull. Though I must admit, I'm somewhat thankful that this all occurred just as I was preparing to be exiled."

Mycroft closed his eyes and dragged his hands along his face. "Don't you think it's a little too convenient Sherlock? Just as you were being exiled? Posing as Moriarty can only be seen as targeting you, and possibly targeting me by proxy. This isn't directed at Sherrinford. It can't be just straightforward revenge. We will need more MI6 data on Blake before we can really come to understand this."

Sherlock considered Mycroft's words carefully, he wasn't going to freely admit that Mycroft was right, but he suspected he probably was. There could be a lot more to this, but until they gained new intel on Blake, what they could discern was incredibly limited. Sherrinford poured 3 cups of chai tea, "You're right Mycroft. But there could be a number of levels to this. Sherlock is clearly a target, but given that Blake will have known that both you and Sherlock would learn very quickly that he is behind the ruse, part of the attack may be aimed at me. I don't mean that I am in imminent physical danger, but that he might attack my heart, just as Moriarty attacked Sherlock's."

"And what would an attack on your heart entail?" Mycroft asked this question with much less venom and sarcasm than both Sherrinford and Sherlock expected.

"I don't know. But I implore you to ensure the absolute safety of our parents, and naturally of yourselves. I have nothing in this world, but a family. Even if that family has been entirely absent for twenty years. Blake will know that my actions have cost me my relationship with them, but they are still alive and indeed thriving anyway. I took away the life of the man he cared about. It is not impossible that he will want to respond in kind. But, as you say… This is all but speculation without the intel from MI6." Sherrinford took a sip of his tea, Sherlock and Mycroft doing the same shortly afterwards. Five minutes passed, and none of the brothers uttered so much as a word, they were all lost inside their individual, incomprehensible minds. The noise of a lighter clicking and the end of a cigarette crackling shook Sherrinford and Mycroft from their thoughts, they looked up to find Sherlock smoking.

"Is there anything else that you can tell us now, which might be of significance or use?" Sherlock eyed his eldest brother, who seemed to have been stripped bare of his cheerful and casual façade that he had been wearing at the beginning of the meeting.

"Not that I can think of, not without more information on Blake"

"Okay. We will return when we have gathered new knowledge from MI6. It shouldn't be more than a few days. In the meantime I will up the security levels at our parents' house. Sherlock is already on high surveillance, not just on my orders but on the orders of the met. I will increase security here for you too Sherrinford, and will ensure that you do not have to meet with anyone but your established doctor, and Sherlock and I. I'll be monitoring whether there are any new staff working for me, or guarding you here. Until we return with relevant data I think that's sufficient for now." Mycroft had found his matter of fact, government official tone once again.

"Is there any way that you can contact us, should you think of anything else between now and when we return?" Sherlock asked

"There is a phone I can request to use, yes."

"Splendid. My number is already with Chris. If you do think of anything then you can call me." Mycroft interjected, the subtext acknowledged by the other men, that Sherrinford cannot have private contact with Sherlock. Mycroft stood up, Sherlock taking this as a sign that they were about to leave, stood up too. Sherrinford stood to look at his brothers; he was about the same height as Mycroft. Sherlock was quite obviously the shortest brother, as remarkable as that may seem, but Sherlock really wasn't as tall as people seemed to think he was. Sherrinford's gaze cut into the two men, those eyes were trying to communicate so much, they looked tired and full of regret. Sherlock and Mycroft moved towards the door, as Mycroft's fist was inches away from knocking Sherrinford spoke, "Take care, both of you."

Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft gave any response other than to be still for five seconds after Sherrinford had spoken. Mycroft knocked on the door and it was opened by Bill, the two men left the room and the building, not saying a single word to each other as they got into the black car that was waiting for them, and drove away.


	8. Chapter 8- Hellish

A/N: I've made some minor changes to the earlier chapters in light of some information revealed in TAB. This information is fairly inconsequential to the plot of my fic, but I wanted to keep it canon compliant. Sorry that it has been so long since I have updated, had issues with my laptop, and very long working hours over Christmas. For those that are still reading with me, thanks! Any reviews, comments or advice is always welcome. To the anonymous reviewer, thank you ever so much for your kind words and tips! I've taken them on board and made some changes in light of what you said :). Sorry for this long authors note, I hope you enjoy the next chapter. Because of the enormous delay in getting this chapter up, you can expect uploads for new chapters in fairly quick succession. I would like to have chapter 9 up within about 4 hours, if not, certainly within 24 hours! x

 _Would like to discuss some things. Will pick you up from Baker Street at 8pm, you will say you're going to collect take away. MH_

John read the text three times, he loathed the way that both Sherlock and Mycroft ordered him as opposed to asking him, however he was fairly grateful that Mycroft wanted to include him. Sherlock had messaged him earlier to say he would need him to come over that evening, so despite it being 14:30, John still had no idea what had happened that morning between the Holmes brothers. The Doctor had agreed to go over to Baker Street, on the condition that Mary could come over too. He didn't want Mary to be alone this late in her pregnancy, and there was zero chance that Sherlock might work away from Baker St. Of course, Sherlock didn't have a problem with Mary coming too.

John realised that his mind had once again wandered off, he forced his attention back to his phone and replied to the text from Mycroft, although he knew that the reply was utterly pointless, John had been summoned not asked. John wasn't even surprised that Mycroft knew he would be at Baker Street this evening.

 _Okay. JW_

John still had a key to Baker Street, he had never returned it when Sherlock had gone away, or when John had married Mary. Sherlock didn't mind, he still viewed Baker Street as John's home, of course he was entitled to a key. As Mary and John bustled into the small hallway Mrs. Hudson appeared from 221A.

"Oh John, Mary!" The motherly landlady hugged both of them "Oh Mary, not long now! I can't quite believe how quickly the time has passed! I've been getting bits and bobs for her ready for when she arrives!"

"Oh thank you! She can't come quickly enough now; I'm not too pleased about the trouble I'm having sleeping when she isn't even here yet!" Mary gave Mrs. Hudson a warm smile, Mary's smiles were somewhat infectious and John found himself smiling too.

"Is Sherlock upstairs?" John moved towards the staircase knowing full well that Sherlock was indeed in the flat upstairs.

"Yes, he has company though"

John froze at the foot of the stairs; it couldn't be Mycroft, what with their arrangement for a covert meeting at 8pm. "Oh?"

"Yes, a young man. Billy was it? Poor boy, he sleeps rough you know? It's such a shame, to be homeless at that age." Mrs. Hudson was shaking her head and silently sighing at the social tragedy that is homelessness.

"Okay, well we best get up to Sherlock-" John was cut off by Mrs. Hudson

"Yes, he hasn't elaborated on what he said to me earlier, after you had left. Is everything okay John? He already looks ill, and he's barely started work on this case… well I think it's a disgrace really, that his brother would encourage him to get involved with all of this. I can only imagine the power that Mycroft Holmes has, the kinds of things he can order other people to do, and yet here he was this afternoon telling Sherlock the details and encouraging him…"

"I'll keep an eye on him. Don't worry" Mary gave Mrs. Hudson's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she spoke gently to the worried landlady.

The three of them shared a knowing look, and the Watsons made their way up the stairs to 221B. As Mrs. Hudson had informed them, Bill Wiggins was sitting on the sofa, and Sherlock was sat in his armchair.

"Ah John, Mary" Sherlock acknowledged them before they'd entered the room.

"Sherlock" John nodded

"Ello Dr. Watson, Mrs Watson" Wiggins offered cheerily.

"Lovely, now that we've all greeted each other… Wiggins drink the tea before it gets cold, and tell me what you know. John, Mary sit down" Sherlock's eyes did not move from Wiggins as he spoke. Instinctively, Mary and John just did as they were told. John pointed Mary in the direction of the red armchair, which he still thought of as "his", and he sat down on a chair from the kitchen, usually reserved for clients.

"Oh yeah" Wiggins took a sip of tea from the mug that was placed by his foot. "Ain't nothin' nicer than a hot cuppa tea for a homeless boy is there?"

"Where are you sleeping now Wiggins?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently at John's question, "John that is both irrelevant and incredibly intrusive."

"No Sherlock, it isn't. I'm asking him because it's fucking cold outside and he could well freeze to death!" John was just as impatient responding to Sherlock's frankly clueless remark.

"Don't worry doc, I have a roof over me head. There are a few places we go; some what Sherlock has the keys to-"

"Enough. Wiggins. Now we know that you have a roof over your head, focus. Have you noticed any strange reactions? Specifically amongst heroin users. No symptoms of overdose from people who you know didn't administer too much? Or any unusual recovery times, effects… anything?" Sherlock's eyes bore into Wiggins, the detective's eyes searching his face for any information.

"Not that I noticed. Though, I ain't been looking for it. I'll keep an eye out, and I'll try talking to some of the friendlier, talkative users." Wiggins took another sip of his tea.

"Yes. Text me immediately if anything out of the ordinary occurs, it's imperative you get in touch with me immediately. There could be lives at stake" Sherlock sunk back into his chair, closed his eyes and steepled his hands beneath his chin. There was silence in the living room of 221B once again. John was burning to ask Sherlock what had happened this morning, he needed to know the finer details of the case, but he thought it would be inappropriate to ask these questions , whilst Wiggins was still there. John checked his watch; it was 19:50, 10 minutes until he was supposed to meet Mycroft.

"Right then, cheers for the tea Sherlock. I'll be in touch if anythin' appens. See ya doc, and Mrs Watson, hope the littlen arrives safely"

Mary smiled "Thanks Wiggins, go carefully now, won't you?"

"Course." Wiggins gave a brief wave and left the flat.

Sherlock's eyes opened as he heard the familiar sound of the front door of 221 Baker Street closing, but still no one spoke. "I fear that I'll be hearing from Wiggins very soon." The detective's low, contemplative voice vibrated through the terse silence that had been enveloping the flat.

"You think the drugs are contaminated?" Mary asked flatly, she was similar to the great detective in so many ways.

"Perhaps. Blake has my attention now. He needs to keep it, he will have pre-empted what information we have gathered on him. The question is what will he do next?" Sherlock was talking more to himself than anyone else.

"Okay, and what do you think the answer is?" John had leant forwards in his chair, a subconscious incline to mystery and probable danger, both Mary and Sherlock noted it fondly.

"Well, Blake is a high profile criminal and a specialist in drug producing and dealing. Sherrinford was a drug dealer and I am a drug user. I would infer his next move will be related to drugs. Nevertheless I do not have sufficient data to determine exactly what the purpose of the move will be. I have Wiggins keeping an eye on the quality and effects of heroin circulating in London. I think it's possible that heroin sourced via Blake could be contaminated, although I want to keep a watchful eye on the cocaine too. If a user dies tonight, people will assume it's an OD and not think about it anymore. But I need to know, I want to determine the composition of the drug they've used and whether it was the dosage, or a contamination of the drug that killed the user."

"But, you've used as recently as yesterday. If the quality of the drug has been compromised… surely you'd know first-hand?" John made a concerted effort not to sound angry about Sherlock's recent use.

"No. As I have explained more than once, I am a user, not an addict. I had purchased the drugs I took yesterday long before I used them and kept them hidden. They weren't contaminated. I never source my drugs from street dealers either." Sherlock was as calm and neutral as ever. "I've alerted Lestrade, he is to contact me if any 999 calls relating to death of a drug user are made. Mycroft is briefing Scotland Yard with appropriate and relevant information."

"What now then?" Mary struggled to sit up, Mrs. Hudson was right; it really wasn't long now until she became a mother.

"I'm expecting an email from my brother shortly. It'll have all of the information on Blake that we currently possess, we need to go through it and try to piece together his intention. Work out what he is going to do, who he is going to do it too and to what end. From what I learnt this morning I think much of this is motivated by emotions, not my strong suit as you know". Sherlock offered a slight smirk at his last remark.

"So you say…" John murmured.

Sherlock stood up, he was dressed in tailored suit trousers, a light blue shirt and his red dressing gown, and he still looked more sophisticated than most. "I need a shower." The detective declared as he ran his hand through his hair.

"You also need to eat. Because it's unhealthy not to, and it will help with your hellish comedown." John was speaking like an army doctor. Firmly but reasonably.

"Nice observation, it is hellish. Fine, get takeaway then. There isn't any food here and I would rather we didn't have a maternal Mrs. Hudson pottering in and out all evening. There is cash in my wallet. Chinese, preferably." Sherlock turned on his heels, his dressing gown dramatically swishing up behind him. When John heard the bathroom door shut, he turned to his wife.

"I'm going to meet Mycroft. He text me earlier, we will pick the takeaway up. You'll be alright here? Just for a bit until I am back?" John was terrible at whispering, his whispers really were not very quiet.

Mary gave John a distinctly unimpressed look and John grinned. Although it still pained him to think that his wife had lied to him about her past, he did find her doubly attractive now that he knew she was more than capable of looking after herself.

"See you soon love." Mary kissed John on the cheek as he bent down to her level. John picked up his coat and quietly left the flat. Mary happily sighed to herself, she couldn't resist a bit of danger herself.


	9. Chapter 9- For Your Daughter

**A/N here is another chapter. Its kind of a bit part chapter, but some of the dialogue is necessary for advancing the story. Hope you guys enjoy it! x**

"Dr. Watson" Mycroft greeted John as he shorter man made himself comfortable in the back of the Jaguar. "I presumed by brother would want Chinese, so I have put an order in to be collected in 15 minutes."

"Okay, so what did you want to discuss?" John tried his best to sound abrupt an authoritarian, if only as a means to show that he wasn't the least bit intimidated by Mycroft Holmes.

"My brother is an enigma, I find it hard to deduce him, and even he cannot deduce himself. I trust that he has enlightened you as to what took place before Sherrinford was incarcerated. It is important that you know the full story, rather than the synopsis of Sherlock Holmes. After Sherlock had been taken to the police station as a safety precaution whilst they waited for me to retrieve him, he attacked 4 officers. As a consequence of course, he was locked in a cell. He was catatonic, for days. I think that part of it may be down to withdrawal, but much of it wasn't. I have no idea as to what went on during those three days, nor what went on in Sherlock's head for the days afterwards. I have asked on several occasions, and Sherlock has replied in all manner of ways. He has gotten angry, closed up and said nothing, pleaded with me to stop asking him. I do not want to include him in meetings with Sherrinford, but I feel that it is the only way in which we can secure enough information on Blake to solve the case, and keep Sherlock safe. I want you to know, that this case may affect Sherlock in ways that you have never seen before. Please, keep a watchful eye on him".

John bit his lip, this felt very familiar, Mycroft asking John to look out for Sherlock. "You're sure that this doesn't have anything to do with you having put Sherlock in life threatening danger then? Like last time…"

Mycroft took a sharp intake of breath and looked out of his window "Oh no John, I may have put Sherlock in the worst kind of danger, inviting him to see our brother and solve this case. I don't know. I am clueless as to how Sherlock will cope with it all. He may be completely fine, focused, collected. But he might not. That is why I am asking you to be watchful. I know you are expecting your first child soon, and I hope that the worst of this case will be over before she is born. I know you cannot babysit him. After the case, if Sherlock has not coped well, everyone in his life will be alert to the stability of his mental state and the nature of his substance abuse. Whilst the case is unsolved, I cannot divulge information about why Sherlock may be a risk to himself nor do I want to include too many people."

John sat quietly. He understood the subtleties and grasped the undertones in Mycroft's little speech. "The overdoses, that weren't accidents…"

"You mean the very nearly fatal overdoses? What you saw on the plane was dangerous but not intended to kill him…" Mycroft grimaced

"Yes, is there anything I should know about them? What to look out for…?" John felt his airways constrict at the thought that Sherlock may deliberately overdose with the view to kill himself, he didn't believe that Sherlock was in that mind set, but equally he struggled to believe that the invincible detective who supposedly had a compromised emotional range could ever have been in such a dark mental state.

"You are a doctor John, he exhibits the usual signs of someone who is manic, and living in a state of suicidal ideation. Sherlock has never sat in front of a psychiatrist willingly and co-operated, unsurprisingly. As you will have seen for yourself, his moods are cyclic, much like that of someone with bipolar disorder. Indeed, his drug use follows that cyclic motion; cocaine to elevate what is already an abnormally elevated mind, and then heroin or opium substitutes to bring him down from an uncontrollable high. Sherlock could never be categorised by a psychiatrist, he is too extraordinary. But you will have noticed that he is manic. When he is low, whether it is from boredom or sadness, he is dangerous. That is why he needs the work: so he is never bored. I don't know what makes him sad, but I have gathered he claims he is bored instead of admitting to a feeling so shamefully sentimental. I doubt he will be bored whilst this case is on. So if he claims to be, assume it is sadness. And then judge for yourself how dangerous that may be. I am fairly confident this work will keep him functioning as Sherlock usually does."

John silently agreed as he processed what he had just heard.

"And lastly", Mycroft retrieved a notebook from his jacket "I doubt Sherlock will use any drugs at the moment, whilst he suspects them to be contaminated. However he may well have a large store at Baker Street… Who knows? I would suggest he would have taken all of his drugs with him to Eastern Europe… If you suspect he is high, ask him for a list. He always makes one. If he says there is no list, he is not high. That you can be sure of. Even when I found him after his non-accidental overdoses, there is always list. It is written so I know. Not so I can nag, or lecture, its not even written so I can hand it to a paramedic… its so that I know. We agreed, no surprises in a post-mortem." The grave expression on Mycroft Holmes' face was haunting, but John understood, and he would not ask anymore questions. If he needed answers he would ask his friend.

"Sure. Yes, you know I will keep an eye on him. Always." The certainty in John's voice was admirable, it was clear that the loyalty he felt towards Sherlock was uncompromising and immutable.

Mycroft shook himself from his thoughts and glanced sideways towards Captain John Watson. "Yes. Thank you."

A voice from the front seat called, "Sir, we have arrived at the Chinese restaurant."

"Thank you for meeting me John, the food is paid for. Don't hesitate to contact me if you think its necessary."

John looked at Mycroft carefully, "Cheers, yeah, of course", he stepped out of the car and into the Chinese takeaway.

As John climbed the stairs of 221B, carrier bags of Chinese food in his arms, he heard the familiar sound of the violin. As he entered the flat he saw Sherlock stood with his eyes closed, dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, his wet hair more curly than it ever looked dry. Mary was still sat in John's armchair, her eyes also closed but her face sporting a massive grin. John took a moment to savour this image. The two people, well three people, who meant the most to him in all of this world, all together in 221B enjoying a beautiful piece of music. As John shifted his weight to his left foot the floor board beneath him creaked, Sherlock's eyes and Mary's flew open at the same time. Sherlock finished the bar of music with a wonderfully dramatic trill, "Some research shows that listening to classical music can improve the IQ of a child, since the child is more than capable of hearing at this stage in their foetal development, and there was little else to do while we waited for you to arrive with food, I thought I would perform a piece for your daughter." Sherlock shifted awkwardly and there was a hint of embarrassment in his eyes, virtually undetectable to anyone other than those who knew Sherlock well.

"It was wonderful." Mary stated as she continued to smile at the detective, Sherlock looked over to John, awaiting a response of some kind. John merely returned the smile, lifted the bags of food up and said "So, food?"

There was a hum of agreement as John took the food into the kitchen and began to get plates and cutlery out of the cupboard.


	10. Chapter 10- Trivial

Sherlock opened the email:

 _This amounts to everything that we are certain of regarding Jonathan Blake. Keep in touch. M_

The attachment contained a full and detailed profile of Blake, including his name, his date and place of birth, his exam results as a teenager, his tax status, his parents… But there was no current photograph of Blake, the newest image was taken around 10 years ago.

"Argh, this is all trivial, it is of zero importance. Useless" Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and pressed his head into the palms of his hands.

"How can it be useless? It is pretty much a complete profile of Blake…" John practically scoffed back at the detective.

"Yes, and its irrelevant. Who cares what he got in his Geography A level? Would knowing your full history like this tell me how you would go about taking revenge on someone that had wronged you in the past? No. At best this information would help me to make an inference that _maybe_ you would kill a person slowly and covertly because being a Doctor you have the knowledge how to. Or _maybe_ you would shoot them dead, because you were a soldier and that's what soldiers do. Two contradictory theories, both of which would be false because I know you, and I know that you would cut that person off and sulk about how terribly you have been treated, considering that to be the crueller and morally superior route. So you see, a complete profile of you would be useless, this profile of Blake is useless." Sherlock practically spat the words out, and pressed his face even harder into the palms of his hands.

John remained still, he flexed his hand and did his best to suppress the rage that was begin to boil up in the pit of his stomach. It didn't take a genius to work out that Sherlock was suffering from a pretty serious migraine linked to his drug use. He was clearly stressed and exasperated at not being able to do the work that keeps his mind focused and his blood free of narcotics. Obviously Sherlock was never going to say any of this, he employed his usual tactic of being rude and harsh to those around him, insisting that their stupidity was precisely what was preventing him from making meaningful progress. Still, John was rather a sensitive soul, and being spoken to like that did make him feel angry, and hurt. He let out a controlled breath before retorting,

"Okay Sherlock, drink some water and take some pain killers for that migraine. Call your brother and tell him that the information he's given you is utterly pointless and start thinking about what information would be useful and how we might attain it. Because you're right. A profile of you would suggest that you were a genius, yet you still manage to think and act like a child half the bloody time!"

Sherlock remained still, he knew that John was right, just like he always was. He almost stood up to rip into his blogger, just to exert dominance, but John might leave. Sherlock, really didn't want to be alone tonight. The detective sat up straight and pulled his hands away from his face. "I don't want any pain killers, nothing legal that you would approve of would soothe my withdrawal. I'm sweating and mildly shaking too. I'll push through it, it's a savoury reminder that after the fall, there is a landing. A rough landing. The easiest thing to do is to medicate that landing with other drugs, but then that would spiral out of my control and I would be an addict, not a user. I need to know the extent of Blake's relationship with Moriarty, and then I can start to work out what his next move against me or Sherrinford will be. But I can't know that, not until he makes his next move. It's frustrating, he is one step ahead and there is nothing that I can do."

John said nothing, surprised and somewhat impressed at Sherlock's stark honesty and calm. He didn't know what to suggest, he was sure that Sherlock had solved cases in minutes when he had far less information than this. At that moment Mary appeared in the door way. She had gone upstairs to bed an hour ago, clearly she had heard raised voices and made her way downstairs to mediate.

"Assume Blake knows everything that Moriarty knew. It's unlikely Moriarty would share all of his ammunition with another, but if he thought that Blake may not launch his attack until after Moriarty had shot himself then-"

"Stop. After Moriarty died. Of course, he would have known he would die at the top of…." Sherlock tailed off but jumped up from his chair and began frantically searching for his phone, throwing pieces of paper off his desk to get to it.

"Sherlock what… what is it?" John asked his friend, whilst looking toward his wife as though she might know what was going on, she didn't.

Sherlock grabbed his phone, but it began to ring in his hand. He stilled abruptly, "Its Lestrade".

"Answer it, Sherlock" John gently encouraged his friend, who nodded and put his phone to his ear.

"Lestrade. Where? I'm on my way. Is he there? Tell him you've called me and he is not to go anywhere."

Sherlock hung up and looked to John. "4 ODs in the same place. Are you coming?"

John looked to Mary who glanced in the direction of Sherlock before she spoke. "Go, John. Sherlock, solve this before our daughter arrives. I'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson is just downstairs if anything happens."

Sherlock locked his gaze onto Mary, he nodded. Mary understood what Sherlock was trying to convey, she wasn't as adept at reading the detective's looks as her husband was, but she understood. He would bring John home safely, and he would solve this before the child was born. John turned to his wife and hugged her, he began to talk in hushed tones whilst Sherlock put his phone to his ear once again.

"Mycroft. Yes I know, Lestrade called, I'm on my way there. I think I have an idea, I'll know for sure after I've visited the crime scene. 8AM, yes." Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and began to pull his suit jacket on. He glided across the floor and began walking down the stairs, John kissed Mary on the cheek and did the same. Sherlock threw John his coat and picked up his own, without a pause even for breath he opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. John jogged out to stand beside him, "Where are we going?" he asked his friends as a cab pulled up in front of them.

"42 King Edward's Avenue, Hornesy." Sherlock said to the cabbie as he climbed into the back of the car, "popular crack den in North London", he added as John pulled the door shut and sat down next to him.

"What idea have you had then?"

"You'll see for yourself, if I am right." This cryptic answer was the last thing that Sherlock said during the 25 minute cab ride.


	11. Chapter 11- Mask

"Sherlock, John", Lestrade approached the two men, "listen its really good of you to come, I know its late."

Sherlock stopped about 4 feet away from the Inspector, "Of course, I asked you to call me if anything like this happened". An identifiable man wearing white overalls, presumably from forensics appeared next to Lestrade. He had 3 pairs of rubber gloves in his hands.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, you'll need to put these on."

Lestrade took the last pair, "Sherlock, there is more to this than just a group overdose-"

"Yes I know, that's why I wanted to know about it..." Sherlock wasted no time in squeezing a sarcastic retort in before Lestrade could continue.

"Yes, I know. But this is strange, I've not seen anything like it, I think its linked to… you know" The Inspector swallowed hard, apparently unable to explicitly say 'Moriarty's return.' He started towards the building, gesturing with his head for the detective and his blogger to follow, they did.

The inside of the house was very similar to the doss house that John had found Sherlock in a few months ago. The paint was wilting from its walls, and there was no light source other than a few candles. There was a group of about 8 people, clearly involved with the case, crowded in the far left hand corner of the room. As Lestrade neared the group he shouted, "Alright guys can we clear out for a few minutes". The group immediately dispersed, they had become accustom to Sherlock's appearance at crime scenes, and if Lestrade was right about the scene being potentially linked to Moriarty, then it must be obvious enough that everyone else on the scene thought similar.

Lying on blankets on the floor were 4 bodies, their faces all facing away from where Sherlock and John were standing. The pair walked around the bodies in order to look at their faces.

"Jesus, what-" John whispered. Sherlock said nothing but he crouched beside one of the corpses. Each corpse seemed to have the face of Jim Moriarty, a mask clearly. Their hoods were up too.

"Have you identified who these people actually are yet?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and levelled.

"No, not yet, why? Do you have an idea as to who they are?" Lestrade stood, a dark and frightened look in his eye.

"No. They're identity won't be of significance. They're just users, clearly they didn't put these masks on before they did the drugs. Where is Wiggins?" Sherlock's eyes began to search the building, looking for the lanky young man.

"He's outside with Donovan, what makes you so sure that they didn't put the masks on first?" Lestrade took a tentative step towards the corpses and looked the world's only consulting detective in the eye.

"Of course they didn't. How would they be persuaded. I need to talk to Wiggins now" Sherlock jumped up from his crouching position and began to walk away. John was still stunned, feet glued to the same spot.

"Sherlock, wait! The masks, listen a member of our team thinks he might know what's going. There is a website dedicated to selling masks to people. It's dedicated to helping people avoid being caught on CCTV. Started in Chicago as a movement by a student. The idea is, if everyone did it and bought the masks and stuff then the same face would appear on every screen… sounds a bit like, well you know". Lestrade was looking at between Sherlock and John. The Doctor's stunned face had changed to a concerned frown, and Sherlock had stopped dead in his tracks, back still turned to the Inspector and his blogger.

Sherlock started to speak, a certain degree of exasperation painfully obvious in his voice, "The mask they usually sell, the student's face I presume? Has Wiggins described seeing anyone who matches the description of the student's face?"

"We haven't got much sense out of that young man, he's been spooked, quite understandably" Lestrade automatically looked to John for support, it had become a habit of everyone's to look to John to explain emotionally sensitive issues to Sherlock.

"Yes. I still need to talk to him now. I'd like blood samples of each victim sent to Bart's for me to analyse, and a copy of the coroner's report. I'll look into this anti-survellience mask business too. What's the website Inspector?" Sherlock was peeling off the rubber gloves and straightening out his jacket as he drawled out his demands.

"Sure, we can arrange all that. And the site, its called "

Sherlock spun round immediately and took a step closer to Lestrade, his voice dropped an octave as he slowly sounded out "what did you say?"

"I said yes that's fine, and the website is "

"you are me… John, downstairs now I need to talk to Wiggins" Sherlock shot John a look, it was barely there for more than half a second. But John knew, and so he silently and promptly followed his best friend.

"Sherlock, why does 'you are me' matter?" John asked as he and Sherlock exited the building and started to walk towards the police cars in the hope of finding Wiggins.

Sherlock muttered, "I need to see my brother", as he reached inside his pocket for his phone.

"No, bollocks to your brother! Talk to me. I'm here, why don't you try keeping me in the loop for a bloody change?!" John had grabbed Sherlock's arm and spun him round, they were looking into each other's eyes, intense anticipation and frustration visible on both of their faces. Sherlock did not break eye contact but he pressed his phone to his ear, "Mycroft 8AM is too late. Baker Street, I'll be there in 30 minutes." He hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. John continued to stare at his friend, with a mixture of rage and disappointment on his face.

"John… you are me, is one of the last things Moriarty said to me before he shot himself." Sherlock looked away now, gazing over the shoulder of John Waston.

"Right, why? What did he mean?"

"A number of things. Please can we not do this now? Right now I need to speak to Wiggins and then to Mycroft. This is game changing, we need to check the safety of my parents, and Sherrinford… Let me do this first." Sherlock bit his bottom lip and risked a quick glance towards John.

John sighed and gave a reluctant nod, "Okay, but you will explain it to me later."

Sherlock nodded and John let go of his arm. Sherlock paced off to find Donovan and Wiggins, John followed a few steps behind, trying to compose himself somewhat before feeling the eyes of others on him once again.

"Wiggins! Why did you let in someone you didn't recognise, who was on their own?! There are people in that house dead!" Sherlock shouted as he neared Bill Wiggins and Donovan

"Alright Sherlock, lay off him okay! It's not his fault-" But Donovan was cut off by a teary, shaken up Wiggins, "I'm sorry Sherlock. I don't remember letting them in, I wouldn't, they musta got in another way"

"You definitely didn't let anyone in?" Sherlock had dropped his voice now but there was still an inescapable impatience underneath his words.

"No, the 4 what have died, known em a while. I let them in this afternoon. They didn't have masks, then I go in to the main room where everyone uses to check if anyone is havin' hard time. They weren't movin so I goes over to check theyre still breathing and… dead. And all wearing masks." Wiggins was rubbing his hands together and through his hair, he was clearly in shock.

"Why did you call the police before me? Were you high?" Sherlock virtually whispered through gritted teeth.

"I didn't call the old bill. When I found em one of the girls still had a pulse. Barely there and unconscious but she weren't dead. I called an ambulance, 3 dead and one dying, they sent the police out as well. She died before the paramedics could help her though." Wiggins' face was a picture of pain and remorse, he looked down towards his feet.

"And… the second question?" Sherlock asked, eye brow raised.

"No, I aint high. I told you I'm off it" Wiggins continued to stare at the ground.

"Yes. Me too. Don't touch it Wiggins, not at the moment, its contaminated, I'm sure of it. Do you understand me?" Sherlock spoke with a surprising amount of compassion, and undertone again, that would be missed by most, but John didn't miss it.

"I know boss."

"And I'm relying on you for information. I need your memory in full use." With this Sherlock gave a subtle nod and turned on his heel to leave. John gave Wiggins a grim smile and followed the detective. As he caught up with him, Sherlock was sending Mycroft some information on urme. The two of them said nothing as they walked to a busier road in order to flag down a cab. It wasn't until they were sat in the back of a cab, on their way back to Baker Street that John spoke, "You alright Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, "Yes. Thanks John."


	12. Chapter 12- Coffee

The cab pulled up outside 221B, the wheels had barely stopped moving when Sherlock jumped out, leaving John to pay the cabbie. As Sherlock stepped out onto the pavement he clocked a Black Jaguar pulling in behind the cab. Mycroft climbed out of the back of the car, impeccably well dressed for nearly 2AM and strode elegantly towards his younger brother, umbrella swinging at his side. "Sherlock", his mouth quirked at the side very slightly, it was a grim attempt at a smile which Sherlock returned with a penetrative stare.

"Do come in". The detective unlocked the door to his flat and the three men piled in, slinking out of their coats and hanging them on the hooks at the foot of the stairs in uniformed fashion. As they made their way up to the flat Mary greeted them, somewhat surprised to see Mycroft in tow.

"I'll put some tea on?" John offered as the brothers wandered straight into the sitting room, he wanted a quiet moment with Mary to roughly explain what was going on and to ask her how she was, because he knew neither Holmes would do either of those things.

"Coffee for me please John, Mycroft?" Sherlock absently waved his hand at Mycroft by way of communicating that he should state his preference of drink too.

"Coffee would be lovely, thank you Dr. Watson" Mycroft moved towards Sherlock and sat down at the desk, looking up at his younger brother expectantly.

"Have you checked the CCTV footage on our parents for anyone whose face matches the products on the website?" Sherlock sat down at the other side of the desk.

Mycroft nodded, "Naturally I'm having all footage in the last 3 years checked as we speak. I'm confident that it will show nothing", Mycroft leant in towards the detective and lowered his voice "Their records show that they live on the estate, and that they have properties in a four other countries. The records are inaccurate of course."

Sherlock seemed satisfied at this response, perhaps even slightly relieved. "And Sherrinford?"

"The same, I'm having the footage checked, but his location is secret"

"Yes, but Moriarty knew where to find him, and Blake has managed to take over every screen in the country…" Sherlock's response was sharp, but not quite as venomous as John had expected.

John was making coffee while whispering to Mary, explaining that the corpses were all wearing masks of Moriarty's face, but his attention was drawn to the two men in the sitting room when he heard them mention the other brother, he still knew nothing about Sherrinford.

"So, you are me dot com. Interesting name…" Mycroft eyed the detective as he steepled his hands in front of his face.

"Yes. How could Blake have known that? I don't understand. If Moriarty had planned it, why was I allowed to fake my death? His goal was to finish me…." Sherlock trailed off.

"No, little brother, his goal was to burn you. We thought that we were one step ahead, but clearly we are a few steps behind. Moriarty had a much longer plan it would seem." Mycroft tried to act relaxed by spinning his umbrella in his hands as he spoke.

John and Mary walked through carrying a tray of coffee for the four of them, this time Sherlock would not banish them before they had a chance to taste their drinks.

"So, Sherlock, what's going on? I feel as though I am in the dark here, help me out? What significance does you are me have?" Mycroft listened to John's words and couldn't help but think it was quite adorable how determined he was to be involved, but he sensed that they were heading into unchartered territory with this conversation. Is this why Sherlock had summoned him here at such an ungodly hour? Support?

"I told you, it's one of the last things Moriarty said to me before he shot himself." Sherlock still had his eyes shut, and his hands in his trademark position.

"So… the question is how could Blake know that?" John persevered.

Mycroft intervened, "It's more likely that Moriarty helped to finance the website, and told Blake about it, encouraging him to use it as a tool to continue Moriarty's work after his death."

"The site was formed after our encounter on the roof of Barts. It has more to do with Blake. It's a way of baiting us. When we pinpoint a suspect for the overdoses, assuming Blake doesn't get his hands dirty. Moriarty never did. We will attempt to track him, he will literally be everywhere all at the same time. It's a challenge." Sherlock opened his eyes and reached for the coffee that Mycroft had instinctively poured him. Sherlock did nothing to thank his brother for the coffee, or even query as to where it materialised from. He was in full crime-solving swing; everyone would have to be very switched on to keep up.

"Okay, so we need to work out who we are actually looking for. Then if you're right Sherlock when we try to track him there will be a number of people wearing masks like his, so you won't be sure where he has gone… but if we can work out who it is before that takes place, maybe we can come up with a way to lure in the real guy. Perhaps take a hostage only the real one would be reeled in by?" Mary spoke without thinking. She realised as soon as she opened her mouth that it would upset John, the reminder that she was, in the past a trained assassin and would have no problem with hostage taking.

"Hostage taking, maybe somewhat difficult. Unless it is Blake himself, we would have trouble okaying it. Protecting the nation from a threat capable of complete takeover of our screens, I think I could clear that" Mycroft spoke carefully, as though there was a thin layer of ice between Sherlock and John, which could spontaneously crack and release a flood below them.

"Wait. No. That children's book, about the wizards, what is it?" Sherlock looked to John, assuming his friend would know such trivial information.

"Harry Potter? What has that got to do with anything?"

"Everything! The evil one, he wants to kill the boy, Harry yes? He won't let anyone else do it. He has helpers to catch the boy but strictly forbids anyone killing him. There was a chapter where they take a potion or something and everyone looks like the Harry. The real one is exposed because his bird dies, and that makes the evil one race towards them. Or something like that. The bait shouldn't be for people in masks, the bait should be for Blake himself." Sherlock grinned at his idea and looked to his friends to gauge whether they were on his wave length.

"What are you getting at Sherlock?" Mycroft eyed him suspiciously.

"Bait Blake with Sherrinford and me." The younger man stared intently at his brother.

"When did you read Harry Potter?" John asked, breaking the intense silence between the Holmes, Sherlock's plans to endanger himself had become quite commonplace, but his reading of popular children's books, well that was a turn up.

"Client left them, read them all in a day. Simple, but not bad." Sherlock answered distractedly.

"You mean you want to take the fight to him. Cut out the game and bring him straight to you?" Mary asked, keen to dissolve the increasing tension between the brothers.

"To us. My brother here controls our secret service. You're initial thoughts are right Mary. Lure him in, and kill him. He won't come just for me, but we know he will for Sherrinford, don't we brother mine?" Sherlock winked at Mycroft who had stiffened visibly in his chair.

"Blake wouldn't be so careless, he has a plan. Clearly it's not his plan but Moriarty's. Why would he give away his advantage?" Mycroft intended for these to be rhetorical questions, functioning only to ridicule his brother's outlandish plan. But, as always, Sherlock retorted.

"I don't think Blake cares about me. He would have me dead, sure. And he is probably enjoying this whole game. But he isn't Moriarty. Moriarty wanted to play, Blake just wants to wound. He wants to hurt me by exploiting my substance abuse, a very obvious weakness of mine. But Sherrinford, he wants him to suffer and die for what he did. We need to draw Blake out or this could go on for a long time. He could hide behind masked men, poisoning addicts hoping that I will slip up for months. As you say Mycroft, he is a national threat to security." Sherlock was fixated on Mycroft, he was trying to prove a point, trying to make Mycroft concede defeat, something he had been trying since he was a boy. He knew that this was a bold request, and that actually carrying it out would be complex and risky. Sherrinford was a murderer, but there again, so was Sherlock.

"I won't be able to clear the release of Sherrinford, not even explicitly for an MI6 mission such as this. It would need a number of signatures, including Sherrinford's." Mycroft's face was a severe pale white. This was exactly what he was hoping could be avoided. As soon as he had received the news about Blake's connection to Sherrinford he has been keen to get Sherlock straight to work on it, if his brilliant younger brother could solve the puzzle then they need not revisit the past. "And we cannot do anything until we can find the person responsible for placing the masks on the victims today. We will need to take them into custody of the British Government and interrogate them, so as to extract information about the plan as a whole. Do you know who we are looking for Sherlock?"

John looked on in awe at the two men. Everything about them, from their exceedingly formal and expensive dress sense, to their mannerisms and accents seemed other-worldly, it was hard to believe that they were real people at all. Sherlock took his phone from his pocket, "I think so, I need to call Lestrade and Wiggins to confirm some details. I'll text you the details Mycroft. Will you look into having Sherrinford released for an internal mission?"

"Good, yes I'll look into what it would require. I'll leave you to it, I have a few things to see to. Get in touch immediately Sherlock" Mycroft was still pale, his eyes still full of despairing resignation. He stood up and made his way to the door. To John and Mary's surprise Sherlock followed his brother out of the flat and down the stairs into the hallway. John was so tired, but even more confused than he had been before they went to the crime scene. He was determined to get answers out of Sherlock now. Whilst Mary was in bed and Mycroft busy organising the secret service, John would force his detective best friend to explain things, slowly and thoroughly.


	13. Chapter 13- Talking

Mary went up to bed in John's old room shortly after Mycroft had left. Sherlock sat himself in his armchair and slowly withdrew himself from reality. Carefully thinking the case over.

"What do you think John?" Sherlock sat, hands beneath his chin and his eyes closed. His voice was husky and low.

"About what? That's the first thing you've said for about forty five minutes…?" John frowned.

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at his friend. John was slouching in his red armchair, his iphone in his hand. He looked tired, he looked older. "Oh. The colleague of Lestrade's… That's our man. He is involved with putting the masks on."

John forced himself to sit up, he yawned himself into thinking mode. "Because he knew the website?"

Sherlock sprung up from his chair and began to pace. "Yes. Because I was supposed to learn the name of the website. Four dead bodies all wearing masks to look like Moriarty, and a website name that only I would link to him. Interesting that someone had already told Lestrade, provided him with the information to pass onto me, don't you think?" The detective continued to pace as he ran his long fingers through his mop of dark curls.

"Sure, but it can't have been him that actually put the masks on. Like Wiggins said, the masks were placed on the people after they had OD'ed. Wiggins wouldn't have let a police officer in. It must have been one of the other smack heads." John mused, his blue eyes tracing the movement of his anxious friend.

"Yes. But that would have been easy. Blake finds a user who he sources, offers them loads of money to put masks on four people once they have died. It was in a crack den, so there were no cameras, and if they executed the plan properly, no witnesses either. None that would be a threat anyway. Its not an easy feat to memorise distinct features when you're high as a kite. At least not for most users." Sherlock's speech and movements were becoming more frantic by the second.

"Sherlock. Sit down. Are you okay, you have a lot of energy all of a sudden…"

Sherlock swung round to look John square in the eyes. "So?"

John maintained eye contact as he quietly sounded out the words, "So, where has all this energy come from? Eh? And a 45 minute stint in your mind palace…."

John was expecting the look on Sherlock's face to harden, and his usual defence mechanisms to engage immediately. Instead Sherlock looked away, his face softened and a slight sadness flittered across it. "I'm not high John. If that's what you are suggesting."

"Well, you have had a rush of energy, seemingly out of nowhere. You asked me to keep one eye open Sherlock, and that's what I am doing. Have you got a list?" John dropped his voice and made a concerted effort to show Sherlock he wasn't being accusatory or hostile for the sake of it, he cared.

"No. Because I'm clean. I swear. I am getting frustrated. I need it to be time for Lestrade and his team to be at work so I can find out for myself who told him about the website. I want Mycroft to call me and let me know whether he can clear Sherrinford for an internal mission so I can take the game to Blake, soon. I need to wash my hair but now isn't the time for a shower. And yes, I am experiencing light symptoms of withdrawal. I am craving a hit of any kind. It isn't easy trying to keep those kinds of cravings at bay. A cigarette would be wonderful right now but I am not in the mood for you to lecture me about it. So pacing and losing myself in the work will have to suffice. For now." Sherlock spoke quickly, but his voice sounded more fragile. It wasn't exhuming the kind of confidence that his deductions, or sarcastic retorts usually carry. It was delicate, truthful and incredibly revealing. It's what Sherlock Holmes sounded like when he finally let his guard down, just a bit.

John nodded slowly and reached out to grab Sherlock's arm. "We can't do anything to make time move faster I am afraid. But I would recommend that you have a cigarette, at least it will ease you psychologically. Like I said the other night, your smoking habit is not my main concern. Then I think you should have a shower. I will make us some tea and some toast. And if you wouldn't mind, I'd like you to fill me in on the elements of this case that I'm not up to speed on?" John did not let go of his friend's arm. Sherlock was a sensitive creature, he always had been, and this case was one that rubbed very close to the bone. Sherlock was on his way to his death when he was saved by an apparent appearance of Moriarty. The case is dragging him through his past addictions and digging up old memories. And to top it all off, Sherlock was dealing with it while pushing through the effects of an overdose. He needed a friend more than he needed a blogger, or a doctor. He just needed support, and John had promised he would always offer that.

They remained still, John sat in his chair and Sherlock stood in front of him, connected by John's rough hands around Sherlock's bony wrist. After a minute of silence John stood up and boldly pulled his friend into a hug. Sherlock stiffened initially, but then relaxed. He hugged John back.

"Thank you John." Sherlock whispered as he pulled away from the kindest man he had ever met. Sherlock quietly padded into his room and returned with a pack of cigarettes. "I'll smoke on the doorstep, and then I'll have a shower". Sherlock waited for John to nod, taking it as permission to go outside when it came.

John wandered into the kitchen and yet again set about making tea. It was only 4:55AM but Sherlock was awake and needed him. Once his detective had smoked and showered he was going to sit him down and get him to talk. Properly talk. About the meeting with Sherrinford, and his plan for what to do next.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom fully clothed in a clean suit, water dripping from the ends of his dark ringlet curls, he instinctively made his way to his armchair. John followed him in, carrying a plate of toast for the two men to share and a fresh pot of coffee. "I need you to explain. You are me dot com, what you think is going on, why are you asking for Sherrinford to help..." John Watson had an incredible ability of sounding assertive but compassionate in equal measure, a trait that Sherlock had only ever identified in one other man: his own father.

"Okay… What are you unclear on?" The detective was clearly incredibly uncomfortable, he was tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair and staring past John into the kitchen.

"Why is you are me significant?"

Sherlock's entire body paused for a moment. His shoulders were tense and his expression was one of deep concentration, one might be utterly in the dark about how Sherlock's incredible mind worked but when it was working it was fairly plain to see. "On the roof top... John."

"Sherlock, I don't know why you feel as though you have to keep the details from me. I endured your death… What damage is you telling me what went on up there before you faked throwing yourself off the roof really going to do?" John sounded more exasperated than angry or annoyed. It pained Sherlock to see his friend feel so hurt and lost, but telling John the truth, would lead to questions about why he jumped. And this did not appeal to him at all.

"But what you are of asking me will cause damage-"

"I don't care Sherlock I just don't want to be left in the dark anymore." John cut Sherlock off powerfully. In response the detective slowly nodded, closing his eyes and resigning himself to the fact that he would have to tell the truth. Not because it was important to the case, because if Sherlock's plan to reel Blake in by using Sherrinford as bait, then the masks and the website would play no crucial role. It was clearly only designed to spook him anyway, and as a means to prevent Sherlock from gaining the upper hand at this stage.

"Okay. Yes… On the roof, I've never told you what really happened. You know of course that Moriarty had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't jump then he would kill you all. But I managed to bide some time by playing with him, telling him that I could get the recall code out of him, I didn't have to die if I had him. He resolved this by shooting himself. But before he did so, he thanked me… and he said "you are me". Now… is that because I had stated that I would go as far as he would to win? Well I watched him die. I didn't die. Or is it that he knew that whether I faked my death or not, he could always back. I favour the latter explanation. You are me- you are coming back too. I was supposed to think I had won. I tried to dismantle the network while I was away, but clearly there are bits of the web that I missed, because Moriarty is back. Not the man, but his plan. None of you are safe. The city I didn't work in during my time away was London. The web is still active here, through Blake and probably others. This isn't Blake's plan, this is Moriarty's. This is phase two, they want to plunge me into the darkest parts of my past, reignite my addiction, burn me. But worse, they will target you, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, because without you three, I would have died three times already. I'm scared John. I need to derail Blake, I need him to take his chance to attack Sherrinford, and I need to go to him, before he comes to me. Because when he comes to me, he will be coming for you. I will never, ever let that kind of harm come to you."

John sat in silence. Yet again Sherlock was willing to take the fight to someone he knew nothing about, other than that he is dangerous, to save him. How could people ever claim that Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart? "But you said that the Moriarty link was just a façade, to engage you?"

Sherlock smirked, "yes, the deal would have been orchestrated by Moriarty but I think we can distract Blake. He is too emotionally involved with Sherrinford. We have to distract him, I don't think Moriarty would have left more than one after-death hoax, if I solved the first one, then any others would obviously be less threatening. They would be controlled by lower level criminals that we could beat."

John nodded yet again, "Okay… I see, but how will you make Blake aware of Sherrinford without giving the plan away, without letting Blake know that you are trying to draw him out and distract him?"

Sherlock stood up and wandered into his bedroom. John could hear the sound of furniture moving but he stayed put. He knew this wasn't Sherlock running away. When he returned he was carrying a small box, similar to a jewellery box.

"Firstly, we find out which junky is responsible for the masks, and whether the young officer who told Lestrade about the website is actually a police officer and use them. Then we make it look like Blake's plan is working even quicker than usual", Sherlock opened the box to reveal a clean syringe, a spoon, and old zippo lighter and a small tourniquet. Upon first look, there were no drugs in the box, Sherlock stood still, holding the open box in front of John, "I will go into one of the doss houses, I will plant some of my homeless network in there with me too to act as my dealers, but they will only deal me drugs that I have personally set them up with. Blake will hear about it from one of his tip offs. Then Mycroft will leak information that Sherrinford has been sent on a mission to find me. Blake knows where I will go of course…"

"Where?" John enquired immediately.

"To where it began for me. Where it ended for Sherrinford. Blake will believe me to be a sad, lost, junkie dying from his poisoned drugs and Sherrinford a fugitive. He will strike." Sherlock's voice rumbled in his chest, his eyes glistening with the anticipation of the next adventure but his breaths jumpy with fear.

"But you will be high, hardly the best state to beat him in…"

"I won't be alone. Mycroft will bring armed men. I intend to analyse the blood of the victims this afternoon and work out what is in the contaminated batches of heroin. I'm a chemist and a user, I fancy my chances at being able to design something to combat the poisoning agent, or at least stave off its effects." Sherlock was absent-mindedly fiddling with the zippo in his box.

"A lot of room for things to go wrong there Sherlock" John's face had resumed its usual worried portrait.

"Yes. But if I wait too long and put others in danger, things will already have gone wrong." Sherlock offered a sad smile to his friend. "I want this to be over long before it really begins."

Sherrinford ran his old hands through his greying, but still rebellious mop of curls. "And Sherlock is sure?"

Mycroft was sat in a red leather arm chair, in his house next to the large wood burning fire. "Unfortunately yes. The problem is that he is right. This is the best course of action in order to beat Blake. Nonetheless the action risks his life: drug use and confidence that he will turn his attention to you before trying to hurt Sherlock". Mycroft spoke quietly into his phone.

Sherrinford was sat at the table in his room, staring out into the beginnings of dusk. "Oh trust me little brother, Blake will forget all about Sherlock when he sees my smug face. I am sure of it."

Mycroft couldn't help but wince at the sinister vitriol in Sherrinford's voice. Yes Sherlock was now technically a murderer too, but Sherlock rarely took pleasure in being the person to break a man's heart. Sherrinford sounded far too pleased with his actions.

"Mycroft, I am not the monster you think. Blake betrayed my business and now he is threatening our youngest brother, you would take pleasure in hurting him too." Sherrinford sounded wise and omniscient and Mycroft couldn't help but be impressed that he still possessed his almost telepathic abilities after such a long time in confinement.

"Sherrinford. There might be a side job. I'll discuss it with you in person." Mycroft sneered despite the fact that no one could see it.

"Ascertain whether this person is genuinely affiliated with the web first. I don't want to kill in cold blood again. Well… you know what I mean." Sherrinford warned.

"Yes I am looking into it. I will speak with you again before you leave the unit. Good morning." Mycroft felt his skin crawl at the very idea that he was helping Sherrinford to leave the unit and accompany Sherlock at all, in spite of that, he kept up his air of civility.

"Goodbye Mycroft."

The phone line went dead and Mycroft stared into the crackling fire ahead of him, mildly uncomfortable with the heat.


End file.
